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Language: English
RECORDS OF A GIRLHOOD
BY
_SECOND EDITION._
[Illustration]
NEW YORK
HENRY HOLT AND COMPANY
1880.
COPYRIGHT, 1879,
BY
HENRY HOLT & CO.
PREFATORY NOTE.
RECORDS OF A GIRLHOOD.
CHAPTER I.
A few years ago I received from a friend to whom they had been addressed
a collection of my own letters, written during a period of forty years,
and amounting to thousands--a history of my life.
The passion for universal history (_i.e._ any and every body's story)
nowadays seems to render any thing in the shape of personal
recollections good enough to be printed and read; and as the public
appetite for gossip appears to be insatiable, and is not unlikely some
time or other to be gratified at my expense, I have thought that my own
gossip about myself may be as acceptable to it as gossip about me
written by another.
* * * * *
There are two lives of my aunt Siddons: one by Boaden, and one by the
poet Campbell. In these biographies due mention is made of my paternal
grandfather and grandmother. To the latter, Mrs. Roger Kemble, I am
proud to see, by Lawrence's portrait of her, I bear a personal
resemblance; and I please myself with imagining that the likeness is
more than "skin deep." She was an energetic, brave woman, who, in the
humblest sphere of life and most difficult circumstances, together with
her husband fought manfully a hard battle with poverty, in maintaining
and, as well as they could, training a family of twelve children, of
whom four died in childhood. But I am persuaded that whatever qualities
of mind or character I inherit from my father's family, I am more
strongly stamped with those which I derive from my mother, a woman who,
possessing no specific gift in such perfection as the dramatic talent of
the Kembles, had in a higher degree than any of them the peculiar
organization of genius. To the fine senses of a savage rather than a
civilized nature, she joined an acute instinct of correct criticism in
all matters of art, and a general quickness and accuracy of perception,
and brilliant vividness of expression, that made her conversation
delightful. Had she possessed half the advantages of education which she
and my father labored to bestow upon us, she would, I think, have been
one of the most remarkable persons of her time.
Not long after his marriage my grandfather went to Vienna, where, on the
anniversary of the birth of the great Empress-King, my mother was born,
and named, after her, Maria Theresa. In Vienna, Captain Decamp made the
acquaintance of a young English nobleman, Lord Monson (afterwards the
Earl of Essex), who, with an enthusiasm more friendly than wise, eagerly
urged the accomplished Frenchman to come and settle in London, where his
talents as a draughtsman and musician, which were much above those of a
mere amateur, combined with the protection of such friends as he could
not fail to find, would easily enable him to maintain himself and his
young wife and child.
Meantime, while the homes of the great and gay were her constant resort,
the child's home was becoming sadder, and her existence and that of her
parents more precarious and penurious day by day. From my grandfather's
first arrival in London, his chest had suffered from the climate; the
instrument he taught was the flute, and it was not long before decided
disease of the lungs rendered that industry impossible. He endeavored to
supply its place by giving French and drawing lessons (I have several
small sketches of his, taken in the Netherlands, the firm, free delicacy
of which attest a good artist's handling); and so struggled on, under
the dark London sky, and in the damp, foggy, smoky atmosphere, while the
poor foreign wife bore and nursed four children.
After six years spent in a bitter struggle with disease and difficulties
of every kind, my grandfather, still a young man, died of consumption,
leaving a widow and five little children, of whom the eldest, my mother,
not yet in her teens, became from that time the bread-winner and sole
support.
Nor was it many years before she established her claim to the
approbation of the general public, fulfilling the promise of her
childhood by performances of such singular originality as to deserve the
name of genuine artistic creations, and which have hardly ever been
successfully attempted since her time: such as "The Blind Boy" and "Deaf
and Dumb;" the latter, particularly, in its speechless power and pathos
of expression, resembling the celebrated exhibitions of Parisot and
Bigottini, in the great tragic ballets in which dancing was a
subordinate element to the highest dramatic effects of passion and
emotion expressed by pantomime. After her marriage, my mother remained
but a few years on the stage, to which she bequeathed, as specimens of
her ability as a dramatic writer, the charming English version of "La
jeune Femme col�re," called "The Day after the Wedding;" the little
burlesque of "Personation," of which her own exquisitely humorous
performance, aided by her admirably pure French accent, has never been
equaled; and a play in five acts called "Smiles and Tears," taken from
Mrs. Opie's tale of "Father and Daughter."
She had a fine and powerful voice and a rarely accurate musical ear; she
moved so gracefully that I have known persons who went to certain
provincial promenades frequented by her, only to see her walk; she was a
capital horsewoman; her figure was beautiful, and her face very handsome
and strikingly expressive; and she talked better, with more originality
and vivacity, than any English woman I have ever known: to all which
good gifts she added that of being a first-rate _cook_. And oh, how
often and how bitterly, in my transatlantic household tribulations, have
I deplored that her apron had not fallen on my shoulders or round my
waist! Whether she derived this taste and talent from her French blood,
I know not, but it amounted to genius, and might have made her a
pre-eminent _cordon bleu_, if she had not been the wife, and _cheffe_,
of a poor professional gentleman, whose moderate means were so
skillfully turned to account, in her provision for his modest table,
that he was accused by ill-natured people of indulging in the expensive
luxury of a French cook. Well do I remember the endless supplies of
potted gravies, sauces, meat jellies, game jellies, fish jellies, the
white ranges of which filled the shelves of her store-room--which she
laughingly called her boudoir--almost to the exclusion of the usual
currant jellies and raspberry jams of such receptacles: for she had the
real _bon vivant's_ preference of the savory to the sweet, and left all
the latter branch of the art to her subordinates, confining the exercise
of her own talents, or immediate superintendence, to the production of
the above-named "elegant extracts." She never, I am sorry to say,
encouraged either my sister or myself in the same useful occupation,
alleging that we had what she called better ones; but I would joyfully,
many a time in America, have exchanged all my boarding-school
smatterings for her knowledge how to produce a wholesome and palatable
dinner. As it was, all I learned of her, to my sorrow, was a detestation
of bad cookery, and a firm conviction that that which was exquisite was
both wholesomer and more economical than any other. Dr. Kitchener, the
clever and amiable author of that amusing book, "The Cook's Oracle" (his
name was a _bon� fide_ appellation, and not a drolly devised appropriate
_nom de plume_, and he was a doctor of physic), was a great friend and
admirer of hers; and she is the "accomplished lady" by whom several
pages of that entertaining kitchen companion were furnished to him.
The mode of opening one of her chapters, "I always bone my meat" (_bone_
being the slang word of the day for steal), occasioned much merriment
among her friends, and such a look of ludicrous surprise and reprobation
from Liston, when he read it, as I still remember.
I was born on the 27th of November, 1809, in Newman Street, Oxford Road,
the third child of my parents, whose eldest, Philip, named after my
uncle, died in infancy. The second, John Mitchell, lived to distinguish
himself as a scholar, devoting his life to the study of his own language
and the history of his country in their earliest period, and to the
kindred subject of Northern Arch�ology.
Of Newman Street I have nothing to say, but regret to have heard that
before we left our residence there my father was convicted, during an
absence of my mother's from town, of having planted in my baby bosom the
seeds of personal vanity, while indulging his own, by having an
especially pretty and becoming lace cap at hand in the drawing-room, to
be immediately substituted for some more homely daily adornment, when I
was exhibited to his visitors. In consequence, perhaps, of which, I am a
disgracefully dress-loving old woman of near seventy, one of whose minor
miseries is that she can no longer find _any_ lace cap whatever that is
either pretty or becoming to her gray head. If my father had not been so
foolish then, I should not be so foolish now--perhaps.
The famous French actress, Mlle. Clairon, recalled, for the pleasure of
some foreign royal personage passing through Paris, for one night to the
stage, which she had left many years before, was extremely anxious to
recover the pattern of a certain cap which she had worn in her young
days in "La Coquette corrig�e," the part she was about to repeat. The
cap, as she wore it, had been a Parisian rage; she declared that half
her success in the part had been the cap. The milliner who had made it,
and whose fortune it had made, had retired from business, grown old;
luckily, however, she was not dead: she was hunted up and adjured to
reproduce, if possible, this marvel of her art, and came to her former
patroness, bringing with her the identical head-gear. Clairon seized
upon it: "Ah oui, c'est bien cela! c'est bien l� le bonnet!" It was on
her head in an instant, and she before the glass, in vain trying to
reproduce with it the well-remembered effect. She pished and pshawed,
frowned and shrugged, pulled the pretty _chiffon_ this way and that on
her forehead; and while so doing, coming nearer and nearer to the
terrible looking-glass, suddenly stopped, looked at herself for a moment
in silence, and then, covering her aged and faded face with her hands,
exclaimed, "Ah, c'est bien le bonnet! mais ce n'est plus la figure!"
Our next home, after Newman Street, was at a place called Westbourne
Green, now absorbed into endless avenues of "palatial" residences, which
scoff with regular-featured, lofty scorn at the rural simplicity implied
by such a name. The site of our dwelling was not far from the Paddington
Canal, and was then so far out of town that our nearest neighbors,
people of the name of Cockrell, were the owners of a charming residence,
in the middle of park-like grounds, of which I still have a faint,
pleasurable remembrance. The young ladies, daughters of Mr. Cockrell,
really made the first distinct mark I can detect on the _tabula rasa_ of
my memory, by giving me a charming pasteboard figure of a little girl,
to whose serene and sweetly smiling countenance, and pretty person, a
whole bookful of painted pasteboard petticoats, cloaks, and bonnets
could be adapted; it was a lovely being, and stood artlessly by a stile,
an image of rustic beauty and simplicity. I still bless the Miss
Cockrells, if they are alive, but if not, their memory for it!
Being hideously decorated once with a fool's cap of vast dimensions, and
advised to hide, not my "diminished head," but my horrible disgrace,
from all beholders, I took the earliest opportunity of dancing down the
carriage-drive to meet the postman, a great friend of mine, and attract
his observation and admiration to my "helmet," which I called aloud upon
all wayfarers also to contemplate, until removed from an elevated bank I
had selected for this public exhibition of myself and my penal costume,
which was beginning to attract a small group of passers-by.
Melpomene took me upon her lap, and, bending upon me her "controlling
frown," discoursed to me of my evil ways in those accents which curdled
the blood of the poor shopman, of whom she demanded if the printed
calico she purchased of him "would wash." The tragic tones pausing, in
the midst of the impressed and impressive silence of the assembled
family, I tinkled forth, "What beautiful eyes you have!" all my small
faculties having been absorbed in the steadfast upward gaze I fixed upon
those magnificent orbs. Mrs. Siddons set me down with a smothered laugh,
and I trotted off, apparently uninjured by my great-aunt's solemn moral
suasion.
He was a cultivated musician, and sang French and Italian with taste and
expression, and English ballads with a pathos and feeling only inferior
to that of Moore and Mrs. Arkwright, with both which great masters of
musical declamation he was on terms of friendly intimacy. Mr. Young was
a universal favorite in the best London society, and an eagerly sought
guest in pleasant country-houses, where his zeal for country sports, his
knowledge of and fondness for horses, his capital equestrianism, and
inexhaustible fund of humor, made him as popular with the men as his
sweet, genial temper, good breeding, musical accomplishments, and
infinite drollery did with the women.
Mr. Young once told Lord Dacre that he made about four thousand pounds
sterling per annum by his profession; and as he was prudent and moderate
in his mode of life, and, though elegant, not extravagant in his tastes,
he had realized a handsome fortune when he left the stage.
Mr. Young passed the last years of his life at Brighton, and I never
visited that place without going to see him, confined as he latterly was
to his sofa with a complication of painful diseases and the weight of
more than seventy years. The last time I saw him in his drawing-room he
made me sit on a little stool by his sofa--it was not long after my
father, his life-long friend and contemporary's death--and he kept
stroking my hair, and saying to me, "You look so like a child--a good
child." I saw him but once more after this; he was then confined to his
bed. It was on Sunday; he lay propped with pillows in an ample flannel
dressing-gown, with a dark-blue velvet skull-cap on his head, and I
thought I had never seen his face look more strikingly noble and
handsome; he was reading the church service and his Bible, and kept me
by him for some time. I never saw him again.
Not long after this we moved to another residence, still in the same
neighborhood, but near the churchyard of Paddington church, which was a
thoroughfare of gravel walks, cutting in various directions the green
turf, where the flat tombstones formed frequent "play-tables" for us;
upon these our nursery-maid, apparently not given to melancholy
meditations among the tombs, used to allow us to manufacture whole
delightful dinner sets of clay plates and dishes (I think I could make
such now), out of which we used to have feasts, as we called them, of
morsels of cake and fruit.
At this time I was about five years old, and it was determined that I
should be sent to the care of my father's sister, Mrs. Twiss, who kept a
school at Bath, and who was my godmother. On the occasion of my setting
forth on my travels, my brother John presented me with a whole
collection of children's books, which he had read and carefully
preserved, and now commended to my use. There were at least a round
dozen, and, having finished reading them, it occurred to me that to make
a bonfire of them would be an additional pleasure to be derived from
them; and so I added to the intellectual recreation they afforded me the
more _sensational_ excitement of what I called "a blaze;" a proceeding
of which the dangerous sinfulness was severely demonstrated to me by my
new care-takers.
Camden Place, Bath, was one of the lofty terraces built on the charming
slopes that surround the site of the Aqu� Solis of the Romans, and here
my aunt Twiss kept a girls' school, which participated in the favor
which every thing belonging to, or even remotely associated with, Mrs.
Siddons received from the public. It was a decidedly "fashionable
establishment for the education of young ladies," managed by my aunt,
her husband, and her three daughters. Mrs. Twiss was, like every member
of my father's family, at one time on the stage, but left it very soon,
to marry the grim-visaged, gaunt-figured, kind-hearted gentleman and
profound scholar whose name she at this time bore, and who, I have heard
it said, once nourished a hopeless passion for Mrs. Siddons. Mrs. Twiss
bore a soft and mitigated likeness to her celebrated sister; she had
great sweetness of voice and countenance, and a graceful, refined,
feminine manner, that gave her great advantages in her intercourse with
and influence over the young women whose training she undertook. Mr.
Twiss was a very learned man, whose literary labors were, I believe,
various, but whose "Concordance of Shakespeare" is the only one with
which I am acquainted. He devoted himself, with extreme assiduity, to
the education of his daughters, giving them the unusual advantage of a
thorough classic training, and making of two of them learned women in
the more restricted, as well as the more general, sense of the term.
These ladies were what so few of their sex ever are, _really well
informed_; they knew much, and they knew it all thoroughly; they were
excellent Latin scholars and mathematicians, had read immensely and at
the same time systematically, had prodigious memories stored with
various and well-classed knowledge, and, above all, were mistresses of
the English language, and spoke and wrote it with perfect purity--an
accomplishment out of fashion now, it appears to me, but of the
advantage of which I retain a delightful impression in my memory of
subsequent intercourse with those excellent and capitally educated
women. My relations with them, all but totally interrupted for upward of
thirty years, were renewed late in the middle of my life and toward the
end of theirs, when I visited them repeatedly at their pretty rural
dwelling near Hereford, where they enjoyed in tranquil repose the easy
independence they had earned by honorable toil. There, the lovely
garden, every flower of which looked fit to take the first prize at a
horticultural show, the incomparable white strawberries, famous
throughout the neighborhood, and a magnificent Angola cat, were the
delights of my out-of-door life; and perfect kindness and various
conversation, fed by an inexhaustible fund of anecdote, an immense
knowledge of books, and a long and interesting acquaintance with
society, made the indoor hours passed with these quiet old lady
governesses some of the most delightful I have ever known. The two
younger sisters died first; the eldest, surviving them, felt the sad
solitude of their once pleasant home at "The Laurels" intolerable, and
removed her residence to Brighton, where, till the period of her death,
I used to go and stay with her, and found her to the last one of the
most agreeable companions I have ever known.
What profit I made under these kind and affectionate kinsfolk I know
not; little, I rather think, ostensibly; perhaps some beneath the
surface, not very manifest either to them or myself at the time; but
painstaking love sows more harvests than it wots of, wherever or
whenever (or if never) it reaps them.
I remember, too, his sisters, all three remarkably tall women (the
eldest nearly six feet high, a portentous petticoat stature), amusing
themselves with putting on, and sweeping about the rooms in, certain
regal mantles and Grecian draperies of my aunt Mrs. Whitelock's, an
actress, like the rest of the Kembles, who sought and found across the
Atlantic a fortune and celebrity which it would have been difficult for
her to have achieved under the disadvantage of proximity to, and
comparison with, her sister, Mrs. Siddons. But I suppose the dramatic
impression which then affected me with the greatest and most vivid
pleasure was an experience which I have often remembered, when reading
Goethe's "Dichtung und Wahrheit," and the opening chapters of "Wilhelm
Meister." Within a pleasant summer afternoon's walk from Bath, through
green meadows and by the river's side, lay a place called Claverton
Park, the residence of a family of the name of A----. I remember nothing
of the house but the stately and spacious hall, in the middle of which
stood a portable theatre, or puppet-show, such as Punch inhabits, where
the small figures, animated with voice and movement by George A----, the
eldest son of the family, were tragic instead of grotesque, and where,
instead of the squeaking "Don Giovanni" of the London pavement,
"Macbeth" and similar solemnities appeared before my enchanted eyes. The
troupe might have been the very identical puppet performers of Harry
Rowe, the famous Yorkshire trumpeter. These, I suppose, were the first
plays I ever saw. Those were pleasant walks to Claverton, and pleasant
days at Claverton Hall! I wish Hans Breitmann and his "Avay in die
Ewigkeit" did not come in, like a ludicrous, lugubrious burden, to all
one's reminiscences of places and people one knew upward of fifty years
ago.
I have been accused of having acquired a bad habit of _punning from
Shakespeare!_--a delightful idea, that made me laugh till I cried the
first time it was suggested to me. If so, I certainly began early to
exhibit a result, of which the cause was, in some mysterious way, long
subsequent to the effect; unless the Puppet Plays of Claverton inspired
my wit. However that may be, I developed at this period a decided
faculty for punning, and that is an unusual thing at that age. Children
have considerable enjoyment of humor, as many of their favorite fairy
and other stories attest; they are often themselves extremely droll and
humorous in their assumed play characters and the stories they invent to
divert their companions; but punning is a not very noble species of wit;
it partakes of mental dexterity, requires neither fancy, humor, nor
imagination, and deals in words with double meanings, a subtlety very
little congenial to the simple and earnest intelligence of childhood.
_Les enfans terribles_ say such things daily, and make their
grandmothers' caps stand on end with their precocious astuteness; but
the clever sayings of most clever children, repeated and reported by
admiring friends and relations, are, for the most part, simply the
result of unused faculties, exercising themselves in, to them, an unused
world; only therefore surprising to worn-out faculties, which have
almost ceased to exercise themselves in, to them, an almost worn-out
world.
To Miss B---- I was indebted for the first doll I remember possessing--a
gorgeous wax personage, in white muslin and cherry-colored ribbons, who,
by desire of the donor, was to be called Philippa, in honor of my uncle.
I never loved or liked dolls, though I remember taking some pride in the
splendor of this, my first-born. They always affected me with a grim
sense of being a mockery of the humanity they were supposed to
represent; there was something uncanny, not to say ghastly, in the doll
existence and its mimicry of babyhood to me, and I had a nervous
dislike, not unmixed with fear, of the smiling simulacra that girls are
all supposed to love with a species of prophetic maternal instinct.
My stay of a little more than a year at Bath had but one memorable
event, in its course, to me. I was looking one evening, at bedtime, over
the banisters, from the upper story into the hall below, with tiptoe
eagerness that caused me to overbalance myself and turn over the rail,
to which I clung on the wrong side, suspended, like Victor Hugo's
miserable priest to the gutter of Notre Dame, and then fell four stories
down on the stone pavement of the hall. I was not killed, or apparently
injured, but whether I was not really irreparably damaged no human being
can possibly tell.
My father, who loved me very much, and spoiled me not a little, carried
me early in the afternoon into the market-place, and showed me the dense
mass of people which filled the whole Piazza, in patient expectation of
admission to the still unopened doors. This was by way of proving to me
how impossible it was to grant my request. However that might then
appear, it was granted, for I was in the theatre at the beginning of the
performance; but I can now remember nothing of it but the appearance of
a solemn female figure in black, and the tremendous _roar_ of public
greeting which welcomed her, and must, I suppose, have terrified my
childish senses, by the impression I still retain of it; and this is the
only occasion on which I saw my aunt in public.
The child did not come home, and all search for him proved vain
throughout the crowded market and the adjoining thoroughfares, thronged
with people and choked with carts and wagons, and swarming with the
blocked-up traffic, which had to make its way to and from the great mart
through avenues far narrower and more difficult of access than they are
now. There were not then, either, those invaluable beings, policemen,
standing at every corner to enforce order and assist the helpless. These
then were not; and no inquiry brought back any tidings of the poor
little lost boy. My mother was ill, and I do not think she was told of
the child's disappearance, but my father went to and fro with the face
and voice of a distracted man; and I well remember the look with which
he climbed a narrow outside stair leading only to a rain-water cistern,
with the miserable apprehension that his child might have clambered up
and fallen into it. The neighborhood was stirred with sympathy for the
agony of the poor father, and pitying gossip spreading the news through
the thronged market-place, where my father's name and appearance were
familiar enough to give a strong personal feeling to the compassion
expressed. A baker's boy, lounging about, caught up the story of the
lost child, and described having seen a "pretty little chap with curly
hair, in a brown holland pinafore," in St. James's Square. Thither the
searchers flew, and the child was found, tired out with his
self-directed wandering, but apparently quite contented, fast asleep on
the door-step of one of the lordly houses of that aristocratic square.
He was so remarkably beautiful that he must have attracted attention
before long, and _might_ perhaps have been restored to his home; but God
knows what an age of horror and anguish was lived through by my father
and my poor aunt Dall in that short, miserable space of time till he was
found.
My aunt Dall, of whom I now speak for the first time, was my mother's
sister, and had lived with us, I believe, ever since I was born. Her
name was Adelaide, but the little fellow whose adventure I have just
related, stumbling over this fine Norman appellation, turned it into
Idallidy, and then conveniently shortened it of its two extremities and
made it Dall, by which title she was called by us, and known to all our
friends, and beloved by all who ever spoke or heard it. Her story was as
sad a one as could well be; yet to my thinking she was one of the
happiest persons I have ever known, as well as one of the best. She was
my mother's second sister, and as her picture, taken when she was
twenty, shows (and it was corroborated by her appearance till upward of
fifty), she was extremely pretty. Obliged, as all the rest of her family
were, to earn her own bread, and naturally adopting the means of doing
so that they did, she went upon the stage; but I can not conceive that
her nature can ever have had any affinity with her occupation. She had a
robust and rather prosaic common-sense, opposed to any thing exaggerated
or sentimental, which gave her an excellent judgment of character and
conduct, a strong genial vein of humor which very often made her
repartees witty as well as wise, and a sunny sweetness of temper and
soundness of moral nature that made her as good as she was easy and
delightful to live with. Whenever any thing went wrong, and she was
"vexed past her patience," she used to sing; it was the only indication
by which we ever knew that she was what is termed "out of sorts." She
had found employment in her profession under the kindly protection of
Mr. Stephen Kemble, my father's brother, who lived for many years at
Durham, and was the manager of the theatre there, and, according to the
fashion of that time, traveled with his company, at stated seasons, to
Newcastle, Sunderland, and other places, which formed a sort of
theatrical circuit in the northern counties, throughout which he was
well known and generally respected.
In his company my aunt Dall found employment, and in his daughter, Fanny
Kemble, since well known as Mrs. Robert Arkwright, an inseparable friend
and companion. My aunt lived with Mr. and Mrs. Stephen Kemble, who were
excellent, worthy people. They took good care of the two young girls
under their charge, this linsey-woolsey Rosalind and Celia--their own
beautiful and most rarely endowed daughter, and her light-hearted,
lively companion; and I suppose that a merrier life than that of these
lasses, in the midst of their quaint theatrical tasks and homely
household duties, was seldom led by two girls in any sphere of life.
They learned and acted their parts, devised and executed, with small
means and great industry, their dresses; made pies and puddings, and
patched and darned, in the morning, and by dint of paste and rouge
became heroines in the evening; and withal were well-conducted, good
young things, full of the irrepressible spirits of their age, and
turning alike their hard home work and light stage labor into fun. Fanny
had inherited the beauty of her father's family, which in her most
lovely countenance had a character of childlike simplicity and serene
sweetness that made it almost angelic.
Far on in middle age she retained this singularly tender beauty, which
added immensely to the exquisite effect of her pathetic voice in her
incomparable rendering of the ballads she composed (the poetry as well
as the music being often her own), and to which her singing of them gave
so great a fashion at one time in the great London world. It was in vain
that far better musicians, with far finer voices, attempted to copy her
inimitable musical recitation; nobody ever sang like her, and still less
did anybody ever look like her while she sang. Practical jokes of very
doubtful taste were the fashion of that day, and remembering what
wonderfully coarse and silly proceedings were then thought highly
diverting by "vastly genteel" people, it is not, perhaps, much to be
wondered at that so poor a piece of wit as this should have furnished
diversion to a couple of light-hearted girls, with no special
pretensions to elegance or education. Once they were driving together in
a post-chaise on the road to Newcastle, and my aunt, having at hand in a
box part of a military equipment intended for some farce, accoutred her
upper woman in a soldier's cap, stock, and jacket, and, with heavily
corked mustaches, persisted in embracing her companion, whose frantic
resistance, screams of laughter, and besmirched cheeks, elicited
comments of boundless amazement, in broad north-country dialect, from
the market folk they passed on the road, to whom they must have appeared
the most violent runaway couple that ever traveled.
Liston, the famous comedian, was at this time a member of the Durham
company, and though he began his career there by reciting Collins's "Ode
to the Passions," attired in a pea-green coat, buckskins, top-boots, and
powder, with a scroll in his hand, and followed up this essay of his
powers with the tragic actor's battle-horse, the part of Hamlet, he soon
found his peculiar gift to lie in the diametrically opposite direction
of broad farce. Of this he was perpetually interpolating original
specimens in the gravest performances of his fellow-actors; on one
occasion suddenly presenting to Mrs. Stephen Kemble, as she stood
disheveled at the side scene, ready to go on the stage as Ophelia in her
madness, a basket with carrots, turnips, onions, leeks, and pot-herbs,
instead of the conventional flowers and straws of the stage maniac,
which sent the representative of the fair Ophelia on in a broad grin,
with ill-suppressed fury and laughter, which must have given quite an
original character of verisimilitude to the insanity she counterfeited.
On another occasion he sent all the little chorister boys on, in the
lugubrious funeral procession in "Romeo and Juliet," with pieces of
brown paper in their hands to wipe their tears with.
CHAPTER II.
However that may be, the opposition was eventually overcome by the
determination of the lovers, and they were married; while to the others
a far different fate was allotted. The young man who addressed my aunt,
whose name I do not know, was sent for by his father, a wealthy
Yorkshire squire, who, upon his refusing to give up his mistress,
instantly assembled all the servants and tenants, and declared before
them all that the young gentleman, his son (and supposed heir), was
illegitimate, and thenceforth disinherited and disowned. He enlisted and
went to India, and never saw my aunt again. Mrs. Arkwright went home to
Stoke, to the lovely house and gardens in the Peak of Derbyshire, to
prosperity and wealth, to ease and luxury, and to the love of husband
and children. Later in life she enjoyed, in her fine mansion of Sutton,
the cordial intimacy of the two great county magnates, her neighbors,
the Dukes of Rutland and Devonshire, the latter of whom was her admiring
and devoted friend till her death. In the society of the high-born and
gay and gifted with whom she now mixed, and among whom her singular
gifts made her remarkable, the enthusiasm she excited never impaired the
transparent and childlike simplicity and sincerity of her nature. There
was something very peculiar about the single-minded, simple-hearted
genuineness of Mrs. Arkwright which gave an unusual charm of
unconventionality and fervid earnestness to her manner and conversation.
I remember her telling me, with the most absolute conviction, that she
thought wives were bound implicitly to obey their husbands, for she
believed that at the day of judgment husbands would be answerable for
their wives' souls.
It was in the midst of a life full of all the most coveted elements of
worldly enjoyment, and when she was still beautiful and charming, though
no longer young, that I first knew her. Her face and voice were heavenly
sweet, and very sad; I do not know why she made so profoundly melancholy
an impression upon me, but she was so unlike all that surrounded her,
that she constantly suggested to me the one live drop of water in the
middle of a globe of ice. The loss of her favorite son affected her with
irrecoverable sorrow, and she passed a great portion of the last years
of her life at a place called Cullercoats, a little fishing village on
the north coast, to which when a young girl she used to accompany her
father and mother for rest and refreshment, when the hard life from
which her marriage released her allowed them a few days' respite by the
rocks and sands and breakers of the Northumberland shore. The Duke of
Devonshire, whose infirmity of deafness did not interfere with his
enjoyment of music, was an enthusiastic admirer of Mrs. Arkwright, and
her constant and affectionate friend. Their proximity of residence in
Derbyshire made their opportunities of meeting very frequent, and when
the Arkwrights visited London, Devonshire House was, if they chose it,
their hotel. His attachment to her induced him, towards the end of his
life, to take a residence in the poor little village of Cullercoats,
whither she loved to resort, and where she died. I possess a copy of a
beautiful drawing of a head of Mrs. Arkwright, given to me by the duke,
for whom the original was executed. It is only a head, with the eyes
raised to heaven, and the lips parted, as in the act of singing; and the
angelic sweetness of the countenance may perhaps suggest, to those who
never heard her, the voice that seemed like that face turned to sound.
So Fanny Kemble married, and Adelaide Decamp came and lived with us, and
was the good angel of our home. All intercourse between the two (till
then inseparable companions) ceased for many years, and my aunt began
her new life with a bitter bankruptcy of love and friendship, happiness
and hope, that would have dried the sap of every sweet affection, and
made even goodness barren, in many a woman's heart for ever.
Without any home but my father's house, without means of subsistence but
the small pittance which he was able to give her, in most grateful
acknowledgment of her unremitting care of us, without any joys or hopes
but those of others, without pleasure in the present or expectation in
the future, apparently without memory of the past, she spent her whole
life in the service of my parents and their children, and lived and
moved and had her being in a serene, unclouded, unvarying atmosphere of
cheerful, self-forgetful content that was heroic in its absolute
unconsciousness. She is the only person I can think of who appeared to
me to have fulfilled Wordsworth's conception of
I have never seen either man or woman like her, in her humble
excellence, and I am thankful that, knowing what the circumstances of
her whole life were, she yet seems to me the happiest human being I have
known. She died, as she had lived, in the service of others. When I went
with my father to America, my mother remained in England, and my aunt
came with us, to take care of me. She died in consequence of the
overturning of a carriage (in which we were travelling), from which she
received a concussion of the spine; and her last words to me, after a
night of angelic endurance of restless fever and suffering, were, "Open
the window; let in the blessed light"--almost the same as Goethe's, with
a characteristic difference. It was with the hope of giving her the
proceeds of its publication, as a token of my affectionate gratitude,
that I printed my American journal; that hope being defeated by her
death, I gave them, for her sake, to her younger sister, my aunt
Victoire Decamp. This sister of my mother's was, when we were living in
Covent Garden Chambers, a governess in a school at Lea, near Blackheath.
The school was kept by ladies of the name of Guinani, sisters to the
wife of Charles Young--the Julia so early lost, so long loved and
lamented by him. I was a frequent and much-petted visitor to their
house, which never fulfilled the austere purpose implied in its name to
me, for all my days there were holidays; and I remember hours of special
delight passed in a large drawing-room where two fine cedars of Lebanon
threw grateful gloom into the windows, and great tall china jars of
pot-pourri filled the air with a mixed fragrance of roses and (as it
seemed to me) plum-pudding, and where hung a picture, the contemplation
of which more than once moved me to tears, after I had been given to
understand that the princely personage and fair-headed baby in a boat in
the midst of a hideous black sea, overhung by a hideous black sky, were
Prospero, the good Duke of Milan, and his poor little princess daughter,
Miranda, cast forth by wicked relations to be drowned.
It was while we were still living in Covent Garden Chambers that Talma,
the great French actor, came to London. He knew both my uncle and my
father, and was highly esteemed and greatly admired by both of them. He
called one day upon my father, when nobody was at home, and the servant
who opened the door holding me by the hand, the famous French actor, who
spoke very good English, though not without the "pure Parisian accent,"
took some kind of notice of me, desiring me to be sure and remember his
name, and tell my father that Mr. Talma, the great French tragedian, had
called. I replied that I would do so, and then added, with noble
emulation, that my father was also a great tragedian, and my uncle was
also a great tragedian, and that we had a baby in the nursery who I
thought must be a great tragedian too, for she did nothing but cry, and
what was that if not tragedy?--which edifying discourse found its way
back to my mother, to whom Talma laughingly repeated it. I have heard my
father say that on the occasion of this visit of Talma's to London, he
consulted my uncle on the subject of acting in English. Hamlet was one
of his great parts, and he made as fine a thing of Ducis' cold, and
stiff, and formal adaptation of Shakespeare's noble work as his meagre
material allowed; but, as I have said before, he spoke English well, and
thought it not impossible to undertake the part in the original
language. My uncle, however, strongly dissuaded him from it, thinking
the decided French accent an insuperable obstacle to his success, and
being very unwilling that he should risk by a failure in the attempt his
deservedly high reputation. A friend of mine, at a dinner party, being
asked if she had seen Mr. Fechter in Hamlet, replied in the negative,
adding that she did not think she should relish Shakespeare declaimed
with a foreign accent. The gentleman who had questioned her said, "Ah,
very true indeed--perhaps not;" then, looking attentively at his plate,
from which I suppose he drew the inspiration of what followed, he added,
"And yet--after all, you know, Hamlet was a foreigner." This view of the
case had probably not suggested itself to John Kemble, and so he
dissuaded Talma from the experiment. While referring to Mr. Fechter's
personification of Hamlet, and the great success which it obtained in
the fashionable world, I wish to preserve a charming instance of na�ve
ignorance in a young guardsman, seduced by the enthusiasm of the gay
society of London into going, for once, to see a play of Shakespeare's.
After sitting dutifully through some scenes in silence, he turned to a
fellow-guardsman, who was painfully looking and listening by his side,
with the grave remark, "I say, George, _dooced_ odd play this; its all
full of quotations." The young military gentleman had occasionally, it
seems, heard Shakespeare quoted, and remembered it.
The experiments tried upon the minds and souls of children by those who
undertake to train them, are certainly among the most mysterious of
Heaven-permitted evils. The coarse and cruel handling of these
wonderfully complex and delicate machines by ignorant servants, ignorant
teachers, and ignorant parents, fills one with pity and with amazement
that the results of such processes should not be even more disastrous
than they are.
The objects that excite the fears of children are often as curious and
unaccountable as their secret intensity. A child four years of age, who
was accustomed to be put to bed in a dressing-room opening into her
mother's room, and near her nursery, and was left to go to sleep alone,
from a desire that she should not be watched and lighted to sleep (or in
fact kept awake, after a very common nursery practice), endured this
discipline without remonstrance, and only years afterwards informed her
mother that she never was so left in her little bed, alone in the
darkness, without a full conviction that a large black dog was lying
under it, which terrible imagination she never so much as hinted at, or
besought for light or companionship to dispel. Miss Martineau told me
once, that a special object of horror to her, when she was a child, were
the colors of the prism, a thing in itself so beautiful, that it is
difficult to conceive how any imagination could be painfully impressed
by it; but her terror of these magical colors was such, that she used to
rush past the room, even when the door was closed, where she had seen
them reflected from the chandelier, by the sunlight, on the wall.
I do not think that in my own instance the natural cowardice with which
I was femininely endowed was unusually or unduly cultivated in
childhood; but with a highly susceptible and excitable nervous
temperament and ill-regulated imagination, I have suffered from every
conceivable form of terror; and though, for some inexplicable reason, I
have always had the reputation of being fearless, have really, all my
life, been extremely deficient in courage.
I left Boulogne when I was almost nine years old, and returned home,
where I remained upwards of two years before being again sent to school.
During this time we lived chiefly at a place called Craven Hill,
Bayswater, where we occupied at different periods three different
houses.
About a mile from Tyburn Gate a lane turned off on the right, following
which one came to a meadow, with a path across its gentle rise which led
to the row of houses called Craven Hill. I do not think there were
twenty in all, and some of them, such as Lord Ferrar's and the Harley
House, were dwellings of some pretension. Even the most modest of them
had pretty gardens in front and behind, and verandas and balconies with
flowering creepers and shrubberies, and a general air of semi-rurality
that cheated my poor mother with a make-believe effect of being, if not
in the country, at any rate out of town. And infinite were the devices
of her love of elegance and comfort produced from the most unpromising
materials, but making these dwellings of ours pretty and pleasant beyond
what could have been thought possible. She had a peculiar taste and
talent for furnishing and fitting up; and her means being always very
limited, her zeal was great for frequenting sales, where she picked up
at reasonable prices quaint pieces of old furniture, which she brought
with great triumph to the assistance of the commonplace upholstery of
our ready-furnished dwellings. Nobody ever had such an eye for the
disposal of every article in a room, at once for greatest convenience
and best appearance; and I never yet saw the apartment into which by her
excellent arrangement she did not introduce an element of comfort and
elegance--a liveable look, which the rooms of people unendowed with that
special faculty never acquire, and never retain, however handsome or
finely fitted up they may be. I am sorry to be obliged to add, however,
that she had a rage for moving her furniture from one place to another,
which never allowed her to let well alone; and not unfrequently her mere
desire for change destroyed the very best results of her own good taste.
We never knew when we might find the rooms a perfect chaos of disorder,
with every chair, table, and sofa "dancing the hayes" in horrid
confusion; while my mother, crimson and dishevelled with pulling and
pushing them hither and thither, was breathlessly organizing new
combinations. Nor could anything be more ludicrous than my father's
piteous aspect, on arriving in the midst of this _remue-m�nage_, or the
poor woman's profound mortification when, finding everything moved from
its last position (for the twentieth time), he would look around, and,
instead of all the commendation she expected, exclaim in dismay, "Why,
bless my soul! what has happened to the room, _again_!" Our furniture
played an everlasting game of puss in the corner; and I am thankful that
I have inherited some of my mother's faculty of arranging, without any
of her curious passion for changing the aspect of her rooms.
A pretty, clever, and rather silly and affected woman, Mrs. Charles
M----, who had a great passion for dress, was saying one day to my
mother, with a lackadaisical drawl she habitually made use of, "What do
you do when you have a headache, or are bilious, or cross, or nervous,
or out of spirits? I always change my dress; it does me so much good!"
"Oh," said my mother, briskly, "I change the furniture." I think she
must have regarded it as a panacea for all the ills of life. Mrs.
Charles M---- was the half-sister of that amiable woman and admirable
actress, Miss Kelly.
To return to Craven Hill. A row of very fine elm trees was separated
only by the carriage-road from the houses, whose front windows looked
through their branches upon a large, quiet, green meadow, and beyond
that to an extensive nursery garden of enchanting memory, where our
weekly allowances were expended in pots of violets and flower-seeds and
roots of future fragrance, for our small gardens: this pleasant
foreground divided us from the Bayswater Road and Kensington Gardens. At
the back of the houses and their grounds stretched a complete open of
meadow land, with hedgerows and elm trees, and hardly any building in
sight in any direction. Certainly this was better than the smoke and din
of London. To my father, however, the distance was a heavy increase of
his almost nightly labor at the theatre. Omnibuses were no part of
London existence then; a hackney coach (there were no cabs, either
four-wheelers or hansoms) was a luxury to be thought of only
occasionally, and for part of the way; and so he generally wound up his
hard evening's work with a five miles' walk from Covent Garden to Craven
Hill.
It was perhaps the inconvenience of this process that led to our taking,
in addition to our "rural" residence, a lodging in Gerard Street, Soho.
The house immediately fronts Anne Street, and is now a large
establishment for the sale of lamps. It was a handsome old house, and at
one time belonged to the "wicked" Lord Lyttleton. At the time I speak
of, we occupied only a part of it, the rest remaining in the possession
of the proprietor, who was a picture-dealer, and his collection of dusky
_chefs-d'oeuvre_ covered the walls of the passages and staircases with
dark canvas, over whose varnished surface ill-defined figures and
ill-discerned faces seemed to flit, as with some trepidation I ran past
them. The house must have been a curious as well as a very large one;
but I never saw more of it than our own apartments, which had some
peculiarities that I remember. Our dining-room was a very large, lofty,
ground-floor room, fitted up partially as a library with my father's
books, and having at the farther end, opposite the windows, two heavy,
fluted pillars, which gave it rather a dignified appearance. My mother's
drawing-room, which was on the first floor and at the back of the house,
was oval in shape and lighted only by a skylight; and one entrance to it
was through a small anteroom or boudoir, with looking-glass doors and
ceiling all incrusted with scrolls and foliage and _rococo_ Louis Quinze
style of ornamentation, either in plaster or carved in wood and painted
white. There were back staircases and back doors without number, leading
in all directions to unknown regions; and the whole house, with its
remains of magnificence and curious lumber of objects of art and
_vertu_, was a very appropriate frame for the traditional ill-repute of
its former noble owner.
While we were living in Gerard Street, my uncle Kemble came for a short
time to London from Lausanne, where he had fixed his residence--compelled
to live abroad, under penalty of seeing the private fortune he had
realized by a long life of hard professional labor swept into the ruin
which had fallen upon Covent Garden Theatre, of which he was part
proprietor. And I always associate this my only recollection of his
venerable white hair and beautiful face, full of an expression of most
benign dignity, with the earliest mention I remember of that luckless
property, which weighed like an incubus upon my father all his life, and
the ruinous burden of which both I and my sister successively endeavored
in vain to prop.
My mother at this time gave lessons in acting to a few young women who
were preparing themselves for the stage; and I recollect very well the
admiration my uncle expressed for the beauty of one of them, an
extremely handsome Miss Dance, who, I think, came out successfully, but
soon married, and relinquished her profession.
This young lady was the daughter of a violinist and musical composer,
whose name has a place in my memory from seeing it on a pretty musical
setting for the voice of some remarkably beautiful verses, the author of
which I have never been able to discover. I heard they had been taken
out of that old-fashioned receptacle for stray poetical gems, the poet's
corner of a country newspaper. I write them here as accurately as I can
from memory; it is more than fifty years since I learnt them, and I have
never met with any copy of them but that contained in the old music
sheet of Mr. Dance's duet.
My uncle John returned to Switzerland, and I never saw him again; he had
made over his share of Covent Garden to my father, and went back to live
and die in peace at his Beau Site on the Lake of Geneva.
The first time that I visited Lausanne I went to his grave, and found it
in the old burial-ground above the town, where I wonder the dead have
patience to lie still, for the glorious beauty of the view their
resting-place commands. It was one among a row of graves with broad,
flat tombstones bearing English names, and surrounded with iron
railings, and flowers more or less running wild.
The only other recollection I have connected with Gerard Street is that
of certain passages from "Paradise Lost," read to me by my father, the
sonorous melody of which so enchanted me, that for many years of my life
Milton was to me incomparably the first of English poets; though at this
time of my earliest acquaintance with him, Walter Scott had precedence
over him, and was undoubtedly in my opinion greatest of mortal and
immortal bards. His "Marmion" and "Lay of the Last Minstrel" were
already familiar to me. Of Shakespeare at this time, and for many
subsequent years, I knew not a single line.
About this time I was taken for the first time to a real play, and it
was to that paradise of juvenile spectators, Astley's, where we saw a
Highland horror called "Meg Murdoch, or the Mountain Hag," and a
mythological after-piece called "Hyppolita, Queen of the Amazons," in
which young ladies in very short and shining tunics, with burnished
breastplates, helmets, spears, and shields, performed sundry warlike
evolutions round her Majesty Hyppolita, who was mounted on a snow-white
_live_ charger: in the heat of action some of these fair warriors went
so far as to die, which martial heroism left an impression on my
imagination so deep and delightful as to have proved hitherto indelible.
For Charles Matthews I have always retained a kindly regard for auld
lang syne's sake, though I hardly ever met him after he went on the
stage. He was well educated, and extremely clever and accomplished, and
I could not help regretting that his various acquirements and many
advantages for the career of an architect, for which his father destined
him, should be thrown away; though it was quite evident that he followed
not only the strong bent of his inclination, but the instinct of the
dramatic genius which he inherited from his eccentric and most original
father, when he adopted the profession of the stage, where, in his own
day, he has been unrivaled in the sparkling vivacity of his performance
of a whole range of parts in which nobody has approached the finish,
refinement, and spirit of his acting. Moreover, his whole demeanor,
carriage, and manner were so essentially those of a gentleman, that the
broadest farce never betrayed him into either coarseness or vulgarity;
and the comedy he acted, though often the lightest of the light, was
never anything in its graceful propriety but high comedy. No member of
the French theatre was ever at once a more finished and a more
delightfully amusing and _natural_ actor.
Liston's son went into the army when he grew up, and I lost sight of
him.
With the Rev. Julian Young, son of my dear old friend Charles Young, I
always remained upon the most friendly terms, meeting him with cordial
pleasure whenever my repeated returns to England brought us together,
and allowed us to renew the amicable relations that always subsisted
between us.
She was a larger and taller woman than Mrs. Siddons, and had a fine,
commanding figure at the time I am speaking of, when she was quite an
elderly person. She was like her brother Stephen in face, with handsome
features, too large and strongly marked for a woman, light gray eyes,
and a light auburn wig, which, I presume, represented the color of her
previous hair, and which, together with the tall cap that surmounted it,
was always more or less on one side. She had the deep, sonorous voice
and extremely distinct utterance of her family, and an extraordinary
vehemence of gesture and expression quite unlike their quiet dignity and
reserve of manner, and which made her conversation like that of people
in old plays and novels; for she would slap her thigh in emphatic
enforcement of her statements (which were apt to be upon an incredibly
large scale), not unfrequently prefacing them with the exclamation, "I
declare to God!" or "I wish I may die!" all which seemed to us very
extraordinary, and combined with her large size and loud voice used
occasionally to cause us some dismay. My father used to call her Queen
Bess (her name was Elizabeth), declaring that her manners were like
those of that royal _un_-gentlewoman. But she was a simple-hearted,
sweet-tempered woman, whose harmless peculiarities did not prevent us
all being fond of her.
She had a great taste and some talent for drawing, which she cultivated
with a devotion and industry unusual in so old a person. I still possess
a miniature copy she made of Clarke's life-size picture of my father as
Cromwell, which is not without merit.
She was extremely fond of cards, and taught us to play the (even then)
old-fashioned game of quadrille, which my mother, who also liked cards,
and was a very good whist player, said had more variety in it than any
modern game.
Mrs. Whitelock had been for a number of years in the United States, of
which (then comparatively little known) part of the world she used to
tell us stories that, from her characteristic exaggeration, we always
received with extreme incredulity; but my own experience, subsequent by
many years to hers, has corroborated her marvelous histories of flights
of birds that almost darkened the sun (_i.e._ threw a passing shadow as
of a cloud upon the ground), and roads with ruts and mud-holes into
which one's carriage sank up to the axle-tree.
I imagine that my education must have been making but little progress
during the last year of my residence at Craven Hill. I had no masters,
and my aunt Dall could ill supply the want of other teachers; moreover,
I was extremely troublesome and unmanageable, and had become a
tragically desperate young person, as my determination to poison my
sister, in revenge for some punishment which I conceived had been
unjustly inflicted upon me, will sufficiently prove. I had been warned
not to eat privet berries, as they were poisonous, and under the above
provocation it occurred to me that if I strewed some on the ground my
sister might find and eat them, which would insure her going straight to
heaven, and no doubt seriously annoy my father and mother. How much of
all this was a lingering desire for the distinction of a public
execution of guillotine (the awful glory of which still survived in my
memory), how much dregs of "Gypsy Curses" and "Mountain Hags," and how
much the passionate love of exciting a sensation and producing an
effect, common to children, servants, and most uneducated people, I know
not. I never did poison my sister, and satisfied my desire of vengeance
by myself informing my aunt of my contemplated crime, the fulfillment of
which was not, I suppose, much apprehended by my family, as no measures
were taken to remove myself, my sister, or the privet bush from each
other's neighborhood.
CHAPTER III.
Half-way thither, however, I became tired, and hot, and hungry, and
perhaps a little daunted by my own undertaking. I have said that between
Craven Hill and Tyburn turnpike there then was only a stretch of open
fields, with a few cottages scattered over them. In one of these lived a
poor woman who was sometimes employed to do needlework for us, and who,
I was sure, would give me a bit of bread and butter, and let me rest; so
I applied to her for this assistance. Great was the worthy woman's
amazement when I told her that I was alone, on my way to London; greater
still, probably, when I informed her that my intention was to apply for
an engagement at one of the theatres, assuring her that nobody with
talent need ever want for bread. She very wisely refrained from
discussing my projects, but, seeing that I was tired, persuaded me to
lie down in her little bedroom and rest before pursuing my way to town.
The weather was oppressively hot, and having lain down on her bed, I
fell fast asleep. I know not for how long, but I was awakened by the
sudden raising of the latch of the house door, and the voice of my aunt
Dall inquiring of my friendly hostess if she had seen or heard anything
of me.
I sat up breathless on the bed, listening, and looking round the room
perceived another door than the one by which I had entered it, which
would probably have given me egress to the open fields again, and
secured my escape; but before I could slip down from the bed and resume
my shoes, and take advantage of this exit, my aunt and poor Mrs. Taylor
entered the room, and I was ignominiously captured and taken home; I
expiated my offence by a week of bread and water, and daily solitary
confinement in a sort of tool-house in the garden, where my only
occupation was meditation, the "clear-obscure" that reigned in my prison
admitting of no other.
This was not cheerful, but I endeavored to make it appear as little the
reverse as possible, by invariably singing at the top of my voice
whenever I heard footsteps on the gravel walk near my place of
confinement.
The play of "Rienzi," in which Miss Mitford achieved the manly triumph
of a really successful historical tragedy, is, of course, her principal
and most important claim to fame, though the pretty collection of rural
sketches, redolent of country freshness and fragrance, called "Our
Village," precursor, in some sort, of Mrs. Gaskell's incomparable
"Cranford," is, I think, the most popular of Miss Mitford's works.
She herself has always a peculiar honor in my mind, from the exemplary
devotion of her whole life to her father, for whom her dutiful and
tender affection always seemed to me to fulfil the almost religious idea
conveyed by the old-fashioned, half-heathen phrase of "filial piety."
Lady Caroline Lamb I never saw, but from friends of mine who were well
acquainted with her I have heard manifold instances of her extraordinary
character and conduct. I remember my friend Mr. Harness telling me that,
dancing with him one night at a great ball, she had suddenly amazed him
by the challenge: "Gueth how many pairth of thtockingth I have on." (Her
ladyship lisped, and her particular graciousness to Mr. Harness was the
result of Lord Byron's school intimacy with and regard for him.) Finding
her partner quite unequal to the piece of divination proposed to him,
she put forth a very pretty little foot, from which she lifted the
petticoat ankle high, lisping out, "Thixth."
When the party broke up, my father and mother, who occupied apartments
in the same hotel as the Lambs,--Meurice's,--were driven into the
court-yard just as Lady Caroline's carriage had drawn up before the
staircase leading to her rooms, which were immediately opposite those of
my father and mother. A _ruisseau_ or gutter ran round the court-yard,
and intervened between the carriage step and the door of the vestibule,
and Mr. Lamb, taking Lady Caroline, as she alighted, in his arms (she
had a very pretty, slight, graceful figure), gallantly lifted her over
the wet stones; which act of conjugal courtesy elicited admiring
approval from my mother, and from my father a growl to the effect, "If
you were _my_ wife I'd put your ladyship _in_ the gutter," justified
perhaps by their observation of what followed. My mother's sitting-room
faced that of Lady Caroline, and before lights were brought into it she
and my father had the full benefit of a curious scene in the room of
their opposite neighbors, who seemed quite unmindful that their
apartment being lighted and the curtains not drawn, they were, as
regarded the opposite wing of the building, a spectacle for gods and
men.
Mr. Lamb on entering the room sat down on the sofa, and his wife perched
herself on the elbow of it with her arm round his neck, which engaging
attitude she presently exchanged for a still more persuasive one, by
kneeling at his feet; but upon his getting up, the lively lady did so
also, and in a moment began flying round the room, seizing and flinging
on the floor cups, saucers, plates,--the whole _cabaret_,--vases,
candlesticks, her poor husband pursuing and attempting to restrain his
mad moiety, in the midst of which extraordinary scene the curtains were
abruptly closed, and the domestic drama finished behind them, leaving no
doubt, however, in my father's and mother's minds that the question of
Lady Caroline's prolonged stay till Lord Byron's arrival in Paris had
caused the disturbance they had witnessed.
With Mr. Lamb I never was acquainted till long after Lady Caroline's
death--after I came out on the stage, when he was Lord Melbourne, and
Prime Minister of England. I was a very young person, and though I often
met him in society, and he took amiable and kindly notice of me, our
intercourse was, of course, a mere occasional condescension on his part.
I was also taken to hear a much more impressive preacher, Mr. C�sar
Malan, of Geneva, who addressed a small and select audience of very
distinguished persons, in a magnificent _salon_ in some great private
house, where every body sat on satin and gilded _fauteuils_ to receive
his admonitions, all which produced a great effect on my mind--not,
however, I think, altogether religious; but the sermon I heard, and the
striking aspect of the eloquent person who delivered it, left a strong
and long impression on my memory. It was the first fine preaching I ever
heard, and though I was undoubtedly too young to appreciate it duly, I
was, nevertheless, deeply affected by it, and it gave me my earliest
experience of that dangerous thing, emotional religion, or, to speak
more properly, religious excitement.
Of the secular portion of the education we received, the French lady who
was Mrs. Rowden's partner directed the principal part. Our lessons of
geography, grammar, history, arithmetic, and mythology (of which latter
subject I suspect we had a much more thorough knowledge than is at all
usual with young English girls) were conducted by her.
She was the active and efficient partner in the concern, Mrs. Rowden the
dignified and representative one. The whole of our course of study and
mode of life, with the exception of our religious training, of which I
have spoken before, was followed under her direction, and according to
the routine of most French schools.
The monastic rule of loud-reading during meals was observed, and l'Abb�
Millot's "Universal History," of blessed boring memory, was the dry
daily sauce to our diet. On Saturday we always had a half-holiday in the
afternoon, and the morning occupations were feminine rather than
academic.
LE TROUBADOUR
Un gentil Troubadour
Qui chante et fait la guerre,
Revenait chez son p�re,
R�vant � son amour.
Gages de sa valeur,
Suspendus � son �charpe,
Son �p�e, et sa harpe,
Se croisaient sur son coeur.
Il rencontre en chemin
Pelerine jolie,
Qui voyage, et qui prie,
Un rosaire � la main.
LE CHEVALIER ERRANT.
The air of the first of these songs was a very simple and charming
little melody, which my sister, having learnt it from me, adapted to
some English words. The other was an extremely favorite _vaudeville_
air, repeated constantly in the half-singing dialogue of some of those
popular pieces.
Our Saturday sewing class was a capital institution, which made most of
us expert needle-women, developed in some the peculiarly lady-like
accomplishment of working exquisitely, and gave to all the useful
knowledge of how to make and mend our own clothes. When I left school I
could make my own dresses, and was a proficient in marking and darning.
I remember but two French girls in our whole company: the one was a
Mademoiselle Ad�le de ----, whose father, a fanatical Anglomane, wrote a
ridiculous book about England.
The other French pupil I ought not to have called a companion, or said
that I remembered, for in truth I remember nothing but her funeral. She
died soon after I joined the school, and was buried in the cemetery of
P�re la Chaise, near the tomb of Abelard and Elo�se, with rather a
theatrical sort of ceremony. She was followed to her grave by the whole
school, dressed in white, and wearing long white veils fastened round
our heads with white fillets. On each side of the bier walked three
young girls, pall-bearers, in the same maiden mourning, holding in one
hand long streamers of broad white ribbon attached to the bier, and in
the other several white narcissus blossoms.
The ghostly train and the picturesque medi�val monument, close to which
we paused and clustered to deposit the dead girl in her early
resting-place, formed a striking picture that haunted me for a long
time, and which the smell and sight of the chalk-white narcissus blossom
invariably recalls to me.
Meantime, the poetical studies, or rather indulgencies of home, had
ceased. No sonorous sounds of Milton's mighty music ever delighted my
ears, and for my almost daily bread of Scott's romantic epics I hungered
and thirsted in vain, with such intense desire, that I at length
undertook to write out "The Lay of the Last Minstrel" and "Marmion" from
memory, so as not absolutely to lose my possession of them. This task I
achieved to a very considerable extent, and found the stirring,
chivalrous stories, and spirited, picturesque verse, a treasure of
refreshment, when all my poetical diet consisted of "L'Anthologie
fran�aise � l'Usage des Demoiselles," and Voltaire's "Henriade," which I
was compelled to learn by heart, and with the opening lines of which I
more than once startled the whole dormitory at midnight, sitting
suddenly up in my bed, and from the midst of perpetual slumbers loudly
proclaiming--
More exciting reading was Madame Cottin's "Mathilde," of which I now got
hold for the first time, and devoured with delight, finishing it one
evening just before we were called to prayers, so that I wept bitterly
during my devotions, partly for the Norman princess and her Saracen
lover, and partly from remorse at my own sinfulness in not being able to
banish them from my thoughts while on my knees and saying my prayers.
But, to be sure, that baptism in the desert, with the only drop of water
they had to drink, seemed to me the very acme of religious fervor and
sacred self-sacrifice. I wonder what I should think of the book were I
to read it now, which Heaven forefend! The really powerful impression
made upon my imagination and feelings at this period, however, was by my
first reading of Lord Byron's poetry. The day on which I received that
revelation of the power of thought and language remained memorable to me
for many a day after.
One great intellectual good fortune befell me at this time, and that was
reading "Guy Mannering;" the first of Walter Scott's novels that I ever
read--the _dearest_, therefore. I use the word advisedly, for I know no
other than one of affection to apply to those enchanting and admirable
works, that deserve nothing less than love in return for the healthful
delight they have bestowed. To all who ever read them, the first must
surely be the best; the beginning of what a series of pure enjoyments,
what a prolonged, various, exquisite succession of intellectual
surprises and pleasures, amounting for the time almost to happiness.
Besides the studies pursued by the whole school under the tuition of
Mademoiselle Descuill�s, we had special masters from whom we took
lessons in special branches of knowledge. Of these, by far the most
interesting to me, both in himself and in the subject of his teachings,
was my Italian master, Biagioli.
While the stern face and forlorn figure of poor Biagioli seemed an
appropriate accompaniment to my Dantesque studies, nothing could exceed
the contrast he presented to another Italian who visited us on alternate
days and gave us singing lessons. Blangini, whose extreme popularity as
a composer and teacher led him to the dignity of _maestro di capella_ to
some royal personage, survives only in the recollection of certain
elderly drawing-room nightingales who warbled fifty summers ago, and who
will still hum bits of his pretty Canzoni and Notturni, "Care pupille,"
"Per valli per boschi," etc.
We had another master for French and Latin--a clever, ugly, impudent,
snuffy, dirty little man, who wrote vaudevilles for the minor theaters,
and made love to his pupils. Both these gentlemen were superseded in
their offices by other professors before I left school: poor old Pshaw
Pshaw, as we used to call him, by the French composer, Adam, unluckily
too near the time of my departure for me to profit by his strict and
excellent method of instruction; and our vaudevillist was replaced by a
gentleman of irreproachable manners, and I should think morals, who
always came to our lessons _en toilette_--black frock-coat and
immaculate white waistcoat, unexceptionable boots and gloves--by dint of
all which he ended by marrying our dear Mademoiselle Descuill�s (who,
poor thing, was but a woman after all, liable to charming by such
methods), and turning her into Madame Champy, under which name she
continued to preside over the school after I left it; and Mrs. Rowden
relinquished her share in the concern--herself marrying, and becoming
Mrs. St. Quintin.
Nobody but Miss P---- and myself dabbled in these classical depths, but
nearly the whole school took dancing lessons, which were given us by two
masters, an old and young Mr. Guillet, father and son: the former, a
little dapper, dried-up, wizen-faced, beak-nosed old man, with a brown
wig that fitted his head and face like a Welsh night-cap; who played the
violin and stamped in time, and scolded and made faces at us when we
were clumsy and awkward; the latter, a highly colored, beak-nosed young
gentleman who squinted fearfully with magnificent black eyes, and had
one shining, oily wave of blue-black hair, which, departing from above
one ear, traversed his forehead in a smooth sweep, and ended in a
frizzly breaker above the other. This gentleman showed us our steps, and
gave us the examples of graceful ability of which his father was no
longer capable. I remember a very comical scene at one of our dancing
lessons, occasioned by the first appearance of a certain Miss ----, who
entered the room, to the general amazement, in full evening costume--a
practice common, I believe, in some English schools where "dressing for
dancing" prevails. We only put on light prunella slippers instead of our
heavier morning shoes or boots, and a pair of gloves, as adequate
preparation. Moreover, the French fashion for full dress, of that day,
did not sanction the uncovering of the person usual in English evening
attire.
CHAPTER IV.
Great was the general surprise of the dancing class when this large,
tall, handsome English girl, of about eighteen, entered the room in a
rose-colored silk dress, with very low neck and very short sleeves,
white satin shoes, and white kid gloves; her long auburn ringlets and
ivory shoulders glancing in the ten o'clock morning sunlight with a sort
of incongruous splendor, and her whole demeanor that of the most
innocent and modest tranquillity.
Mademoiselle Descuill�s shut her book to with a snap, and sat bolt
upright and immovable, with eyes and mouth wide open. Young Mr. Guillet
blushed purple, and old Mr. Guillet scraped a few interjections on his
fiddle, and then, putting it down, took a resonant pinch of snuff, by
way of restoring his scattered senses.
No observation was made, however, and the lesson proceeded, young Mr.
Guillet turning scarlet each time either of his divergent orbs of vision
encountered his serenely unconscious, full-dressed pupil; which
certainly, considering that he was a member of the Grand Opera _corps de
ballet_, was a curious instance of the purely conventional ideas of
decency which custom makes one accept.
Another favorite promenade of ours, and the one that I preferred even to
the hero-worship of the Luxembourg, was the Parc Monceaux. This estate,
the private property of the Orleans family, confiscated by Louis
Napoleon, and converted into a whole new _quartier_ of his new Paris,
with splendid streets and houses, and an exquisite public flower-garden
in the midst of them, was then a solitary and rather neglected Jardin
Anglais (so called) or park, surrounded by high walls and entered by a
small wicket, the porter of which required a permit of admission before
allowing ingress to the domain. I never remember seeing a single
creature but ourselves in the complete seclusion of this deserted
pleasaunce. It had grass and fine trees and winding walks, and little
brooks fed by springs that glimmered in cradles of moss-grown,
antiquated rock-work; no flowers or semblance of cultivation, but a
general air of solitude and wildness that recommended it especially to
me, and recalled as little as possible the great, gay city which
surrounded it.
My real holidays, however (for I did not go home during the three years
I spent in Paris), were the rare and short visits my father paid me
while I was at school. At all other seasons Paris might have been
Patagonia for any thing I saw or heard or knew of its brilliant gayety
and splendid variety. But during those holidays of his and mine, my
enjoyment and his were equal, I verily believe, though probably not (as
I then imagined) perfect. Pleasant days of joyous _camaraderie_ and
_flanerie_!--in which every thing, from being new to me, was almost as
good as new to my indulgent companion: the Rue de Rivoli, the Tuileries,
the Boulevard, the Palais Royal, the _d�jeuner � la fourchette_ at the
Caf� Riche, the dinner in the small _cabinet_ at the Trois Fr�res, or
the Cadran Bleu, and the evening climax of the theater on the Boulevard,
where Philippe, or L�ontine Fay, or Poitier and Brunet, made a school of
dramatic art of the small stages of the Porte St. Martin, the Vari�t�s,
and the Vaudeville.
My father's days in Paris, in which he escaped from the hard labor and
heavy anxiety of his theatrical life of actor, manager, and proprietor,
and I from the dull routine of school-room studies and school-ground
recreations, were pleasant days to him, and golden ones in my girlish
calendar. I remember seeing, with him, a piece called "Les deux
Sergens," a sort of modern Damon and Pythias, in which the heroic
friends are two French soldiers, and in which a celebrated actor of the
name of Philippe performed the principal part. He was the predecessor
and model of Fr�d�ric Lema�tre, who (himself infinitely superior to his
pupil and copyist, Mr. Fechter, who, by a very feeble imitation of
Lema�tre's most remarkable parts, has achieved so much reputation) was
not to be compared with Philippe in the sort of sentimental melodrama of
which "Les deux Sergens" was a specimen.
This M. Philippe was a remarkable man, not only immensely popular for
his great professional merit, but so much respected for an order of
merit not apt to be enthusiastically admired by Parisians--that of a
moral character and decent life--that at his funeral a very serious riot
occurred, in consequence of the Archbishop of Paris, according to the
received opinion and custom of the day, refusing to allow him to be
buried in consecrated ground; the profane player's calling, in the year
of grace 1823, or thereabouts, being still one which disqualified its
followers for receiving the sacraments of the Roman Catholic Church, and
therefore, of course, for claiming Christian burial. The general feeling
of the Parisian public, however, was in this case too strong for the
ancient anathema of the Church. The Archbishop of Paris was obliged to
give way, and the dead body of the worthy actor was laid in the sacred
soil of P�re la Chaise. I believe that since that time the question has
never again been debated, nor am I aware that there is any one more
peculiarly theatrical cemetery than another in Paris.
The piece was the broadest and most grotesque quiz of the "grand genre
classique et h�ro�que," and was almost the first of an order of
entertainments which have gone on increasing in favor up to the present
day of universally triumphant parody and burlesque, by no means as
laughable and by no means as unobjectionable. Indeed, farcical to the
broadest point as was that mythological travesty of "The Dana�des," it
was the essence of decency and propriety compared with "La grande
Duchesse," "La belle H�l�ne," "Orph�e aux Enfers," "La Biche au Bois,"
"Le petit Faust," and all the vile succession of indecencies and
immoralities that the female good society of England in these latter
years has delighted in witnessing, without the help of the mask which
enabled their great-grandmothers to sit out the plays of Wycherley,
Congreve, and Farquhar, chaste and decorous in their crude coarseness
compared with the French operatic burlesques of the present day.
But by far the most amusing piece in which I recollect seeing Poitier,
was one in which he acted with the equally celebrated Brunet, and in
which they both represented English _women_--"Les Anglaises pour Rire."
The Continent was then just beginning to make acquaintance with the
traveling English, to whom the downfall of Bonaparte had opened the
gates of Europe, and who then began, as they have since continued, in
ever-increasing numbers, to carry amazement and amusement from the
shores of the Channel to those of the Mediterranean, by their wealth,
insolence, ignorance, and cleanliness.
"Les Anglaises pour Rire" was a caricature (if such a thing were
possible) of the English female traveler of that period. Coal-scuttle
poke bonnets, short and scanty skirts, huge splay feet arrayed in
indescribable shoes and boots, short-waisted tight-fitting spencers,
colors which not only swore at each other, but caused all beholders to
swear at them--these were the outward and visible signs of the British
fair of that day. To these were added, in this representation of them by
these French appreciators of their attractions, a mode of speech in
which the most ludicrous French, in the most barbarous accent, was
uttered in alternate bursts of loud abruptness and languishing drawl.
Sudden, grotesque playfulness was succeeded by equally sudden and
grotesque bashfulness; now an eager intrepidity of wild enthusiasm,
defying all decorum, and then a sour, severe reserve, full of angry and
terrified suspicion of imaginary improprieties. Tittering shyness, all
giggle-goggle and blush; stony and stolid stupidity, impenetrable to a
ray of perception; awkward, angular postures and gestures, and jerking
saltatory motions; Brobdingnag strides and straddles, and kittenish
frolics and friskings; sharp, shrill little whinnying squeals and
squeaks, followed by lengthened, sepulchral "O-h's"--all formed together
such an irresistibly ludicrous picture as made "Les Anglaises pour Rire"
of Poitier and Brunet one of the most comical pieces of acting I have
seen in all my life.
Mrs. Rowden's establishment in Hans Place had been famous for occasional
dramatic representations by the pupils; and though she had become in her
Paris days what in the religious jargon of that day was called serious,
or even methodistical, she winked at, if she did not absolutely
encourage, sundry attempts of a similar sort which her Paris pupils got
up.
Our dramatic ardor was considerably damped by this event, and when next
it revived our choice could not be accused of levity. Our aim was
infinitely more ambitious, and our task more arduous. Racine's
"Andromaque" was selected for our next essay in acting, and was, I
suppose, pronounced unobjectionable by the higher authorities. Here,
however, our mainstay and support, Mademoiselle Descuill�s, interposed a
very peculiar difficulty. She had very good-naturedly learned the part
of Solyman, in the other piece, for us, and whether she resented the
useless trouble she had had on that occasion, or disliked that of
committing several hundred of Racine's majestic verses to memory, I know
not; but she declared that she would only act the part of Pyrrhus, which
we wished her to fill, if we would read it aloud to her till she knew
it, while she worked at her needle. Of course we had to accept any
condition she chose to impose upon us, and so we all took it by turns,
whenever we saw her industrious fingers flying through their
never-ending task, to seize up Racine and begin pouring her part into
her ears. She actually learned it so, and our principal difficulty after
so teaching her was to avoid mixing up the part of Pyrrhus, which we had
acquired by the same process, with every other part in the play.
The dressing of this classical play was even more convenient than our
contemplated Turkish costume could have been. A long white skirt drawn
round the waist, a shorter one, with slits in it for armholes, drawn
round the neck by way of tunic, with dark blue or scarlet Greek pattern
border, and ribbon of the same color for girdle, and sandals, formed a
costume that might have made Rachel or Ristori smile, but which
satisfied all our conceptions of antique simplicity and grace; and so we
played our play.
Mademoiselle Descuill�s was Pyrrhus; a tall blonde, with an insipid face
and good figure, Andromaque; Elizabeth P----, my admired and emulated
superior in all things, Oreste (not superior, however, in acting; she
had not the questionable advantage of dramatic blood in her veins); and
myself, Hermione (in the performance of which I very presently gave
token of mine). We had an imposing audience, and were all duly
terrified, became hoarse with nervousness, swallowed raw eggs to clear
our throats, and only made ourselves sick with them as well as with
fright. But at length it was all over; the tragedy was ended, and I had
electrified the audience, my companions, and, still more, myself; and
so, to avert any ill effects from this general electrification, Mrs.
Rowden thought it wise and well to say to me, as she bade me good-night,
"Ah, my dear, I don't think your parents need ever anticipate your going
on the stage; you would make but a poor actress." And she was right
enough. I did make but a poor actress, certainly, though that was not
for want of natural talent for the purpose, but for want of cultivating
it with due care and industry. At the time she made that comment upon my
acting I felt very well convinced, and have since had good reason to
know, that my school-mistress thought my performance a threat, or
promise (I know not which to call it) of decided dramatic power, as I
believe it was.
I now became acquainted with all Racine's and Corneille's plays, from
which we were made to commit to memory the most remarkable passages; and
I have always congratulated myself upon having become familiar with all
these fine compositions before I had any knowledge whatever of
Shakespeare. Acquaintance with his works might, and I suppose certainly
would, have impaired my relish for the great French dramatists, whose
tragedies, noble and pathetic in spite of the stiff formality of their
construction, the bald rigidity of their adherence to the classic
unities, and the artificial monotony of the French heroic rhymed verse,
would have failed to receive their due appreciation from a taste and
imagination already familiar with the glorious freedom of Shakespeare's
genius. As it was, I learned to delight extremely in the dignified
pathos and stately tragic power of Racine and Corneille, in the
tenderness, refinement, and majestic vigorous simplicity of their fine
creations, and possessed a treasure of intellectual enjoyment in their
plays before opening the first page of that wonderful volume which
contains at once the history of human nature and human existence.
After I had been about a year and a half at school, Mrs. Rowden left her
house in the Rue d'Angoul�me, and moved to a much finer one, at the very
top of the Champs �lys�es, a large, substantial stone mansion, within
lofty iron gates and high walls of inclosure. It was the last house on
the left-hand side within the Barri�re de l'�toile, and stood on a
slight eminence and back from the Avenue des Champs �lys�es by some
hundred yards. For many years after I had left school, on my repeated
visits to Paris, the old stone house bore on its gray front the large
"Institution de jeunes Demoiselles," which betokened the unchanged tenor
of its existence. But the rising tide of improvement has at length swept
it away, and modern Paris has rolled over it, and its place remembers it
no more. It was a fine old house, roomy, airy, bright, sunny, cheerful,
with large apartments and a capital play-ground, formed by that
old-fashioned device, a quincunx of linden trees, under whose shade we
carried on very Amazonian exercises, fighting having become one of our
favorite recreations.
This house was said to have belonged to Robespierre at one time, and a
very large and deep well in one corner of the play-ground was invested
with a horrid interest in our imaginations by tales of _noyades_ on a
small scale supposed to have been perpetrated in its depths by his
orders. This charm of terror was, I think, rather a gratuitous addition
to the attractions of this uncommonly fine well; but undoubtedly it
added much to the fascination of one of our favorite amusements, which
was throwing into it the heaviest stones we could lift, and rushing to
the farthest end of the play-ground, which we sometimes reached before
the resounding _bumps_ from side to side ended in a sullen splash into
the water at the bottom. With our removal to the Barri�re de l'�toile,
the direction of our walks altered, and our visits to the Luxembourg
Gardens and the Parc Monceaux were exchanged for expeditions to the Bois
de Boulogne, then how different from the charming pleasure-ground of
Paris which it became under the reforming taste and judgment of Louis
Napoleon!
Between the back of our play-ground and the village suburb of Chaillot
scarcely a decent street or even house then existed; there was no
splendid Avenue de l'Imp�ratrice, with bright villas standing on vivid
carpets of flowers and turf. Our way to the "wood" was along the
dreariest of dusty high-roads, bordered with mean houses and
disreputable-looking _estaminets_; and the Bois de Boulogne itself, then
undivided from Paris by the fortifications which subsequently encircled
the city, was a dismal network of sandy avenues and _carrefours_,
traversed in every direction by straight, narrow, gloomy paths, a dreary
wilderness of low thickets and tangled copsewood.
I have said that I never returned home during my three years' school
life in Paris; but portions of my holidays were spent with a French
family, kind friends of my parents, who received me as an _enfant de la
maison_ among them. They belonged to the _petite bourgeoisie_ of Paris.
Mr. A---- had been in some business, I believe, but when I visited him
he was living as a small _rentier_, in a pretty little house on the main
road from Paris to Versailles.
It was just such a residence as Balzac describes with such minute finish
in his scenes of Parisian and provincial life: a sunny little
_maisonnette_, with green _jalousies_, a row of fine linden trees
clipped into arches in front of it, and behind, the trim garden with its
wonderfully productive dwarf _espaliers_, full of delicious pears and
Reine Claudes (that queen of amber-tinted, crimson-freckled greengages),
its apricots, as fragrant as flowers, and its glorious, spice-breathing
carnations.
The mode of life and manners of these worthy people were not refined or
elegant, but essentially hospitable and kind; and I enjoyed the sunny
freedom of my holiday visits to them extremely. The marriage of their
daughter opened to me a second Parisian home of the same class, but with
greater pretensions to social advantages, derived from the great city in
the center of which it stood.
My holidays after this time were spent with M. and Madame R----, in
whose society I remember frequently seeing a literary man of the name of
P�lissier, a clever writer, a most amusing talker, and an admirable
singer of B�ranger's songs.
Another visitor of their house was M. Rio, the eminent member of the
French ultramontane party, the friend of Lammenais, Lacordaire,
Montalembert, the La Ferronays, the hero of the Jeune Vend�e, the
learned and devout historian of Christian art. I think my friend M.
R---- was a Breton by birth, and that was probably the tie between
himself and his remarkable Vend�an friend, whose tall, commanding
figure, dark complexion, and powerful black eyes gave him more the
appearance of a Neapolitan or Spaniard than of a native of the coast of
ancient Armorica. M. Rio was then a young man, and probably in Paris for
the first time, at the beginning of the literary career of which he has
furnished so interesting a sketch in the autobiographical volumes which
form the conclusion of his "Histoire de l'Art Chr�tien." Five and twenty
years later, while passing my second winter in Rome, I heard of M. Rio's
arrival there, and of the unbounded satisfaction he expressed at finding
himself in the one place where no restless wheels beat time to, and no
panting chimneys breathed forth the smoke of the vast, multiform
industry of the nineteenth century; where the sacred stillness of
unprogressive conservatism yet prevailed undisturbed. Gas had, indeed,
been introduced in the English quarter; but M. Rio could shut his eyes
when he drove through that, and there still remained darkness enough
elsewhere for those who loved it better than light.
I remained in Paris till I was between fifteen and sixteen years old,
and then it was determined that I should return home. The departure of
Elizabeth P---- had left me without competitor in my studies among my
companions, and I was at an age to be better at home than at any school.
My father came to fetch me, and the only adventure I met with on the way
back was losing my bonnet, blown from my head into the sea, on board the
packet, which obliged me to purchase one as soon as I reached London;
and having no discreeter guide of my proceedings, I so far imposed upon
my father's masculine ignorance in such matters as to make him buy for
me a full-sized Leghorn flat, under the circumference of which enormous
_sombrero_ I seated myself by him on the outside of the Weybridge coach,
and amazed the gaping population of each successive village we passed
through with the vast dimensions of the thatch I had put on my head.
Weybridge was not then reached by train in half an hour from London; it
was two or three hours' coach distance: a rural, rather
deserted-looking, and most picturesque village, with the desolate domain
of Portmore Park, its mansion falling to ruin, on one side of it, and on
the other the empty house and fine park of Oatlands, the former
residence of the Duke of York.
The straggling little village lay on the edge of a wild heath and common
country that stretches to Guildford and Godalming and all through that
part of Surrey to Tunbridge Wells, Brighton, and the Sussex coast--a
region of light, sandy soil, hiding its agricultural poverty under a
royal mantle of golden gorse and purple heather, and with large tracts
of blue aromatic pine wood and one or two points of really fine scenery,
where the wild moorland rolls itself up into ridges and rises to crests
of considerable height, which command extensive and beautiful views:
such as the one from the summit of Saint George's Hill, near Weybridge,
and the top of Blackdown, the noble site of Tennyson's fine house,
whence, over miles of wild wood and common, the eye sweeps to the downs
above the Sussex cliffs and the glint of the narrow seas.
We had left London in the afternoon, and did not reach Weybridge until
after dark. I had been tormented the whole way down by a nervous fear
that I should not know my mother's face again; an absence of three
years, of course, could not justify such an apprehension, but it had
completely taken possession of my imagination and was causing me much
distress, when, as the coach stopped in the dark at the village inn, I
heard the words, "Is there any one here for Mrs. Kemble?" uttered in a
voice which I knew so well, that I sprang, hat and all, into my mother's
arms, and effectually got rid of my fear that I should not know her.
Her rural yearnings had now carried her beyond her suburban refuge at
Craven Hill, and she was infinitely happy, in her small cottage
habitation, on the outskirts of Weybridge and the edge of its
picturesque common. Tiny, indeed, it was, and but for her admirable
power of contrivance could hardly have held us with any comfort; but she
delighted in it, and so did we all except my father, who, like most men,
had no real taste for the country; the men who appear to themselves and
others to like it confounding their love for hunting and shooting with
that of the necessary field of their sports. Anglers seem to me to be
the only sportsmen who really have a taste for and love of nature as
well as for fishy water. At any rate, the silent, solitary, and
comparatively still character of their pursuit enables them to study and
appreciate beauty of scenery more than the violent exercise and
excitement of fox-hunting, whatever may be said in favor of the
picturesque influences of beating preserves and wading through
turnip-fields with keepers and companions more or less congenial.
The little cottage at Weybridge was covered at the back with a vine,
which bore with the utmost luxuriance a small, black, sweet-water grape,
from which, I remember, one year my mother determined to make wine; a
direful experiment, which absorbed our whole harvest of good little
fruit, filled every room in the house with unutterable messes, produced
much fermentation of temper as well as wine, and ended in a liquid
product of such superlative nastiness, that to drink it defied our
utmost efforts of obedience and my mother's own resolute courage; so it
was with acclamations of execration made libations of--to the infernal
gods, I should think--and no future vintage was ever tried, to our great
joy.
The little plot of lawn on which our cottage stood was backed by the
wild purple swell of the common, and that was crested by a fine fir
wood, a beautiful rambling and scrambling ground, full of picturesque
and romantic associations with all the wild and fanciful mental
existences which I was then beginning to enjoy. And even as I glide
through it now, on the railroad that has laid its still depths open to
the sun's glare and scared its silence with the eldritch snort and
shriek of the iron team, I have visions of Undine and Sintram, the
Elves, the little dog Stromian, the Wood-Witch, and all the world of
supernatural beauty and terror which then peopled its recesses for me,
under the influence of the German literature that I was becoming
acquainted with through the medium of French and English translations,
and that was carrying me on its tide of powerful enchantment far away
from the stately French classics of my school studies.
The sort of orchard which contained all these objects of our regard was
at the back of the house; in front of it, however, the chief peculiarity
(which was by no means a beauty) of the place was displayed.
At length she hit upon a device for abating her nuisance, and set about
executing it as follows. She had the sand dug out of the interior of the
mound and added to its exterior, which she had graded and smoothed and
leveled and turfed so as to resemble the glacis of a square bastion or
casemate, or other steep, smooth-sided earth-work in a fortification. It
was, I suppose, about twenty feet high, and sloped at too steep an angle
for us to scale or descend it; a good footpath ran round the top,
accessible from the entrance of the sand-heap, the interior walls of
which she turfed (to speak Irish) with heather, and the ground or floor
of this curious inclosure she planted with small clumps of evergreen
shrubs, leaving a broad walk through the middle of it to the house door.
A more curious piece of domestic fortification never adorned a cottage
garden. It looked like a bit of Robinson Crusoe's castle--perhaps even
more like a portion of some deserted fortress. It challenged the
astonishment of all our visitors, whose invariable demand was, "What is
that curious place in the garden?" "The mound," was the reply; and the
mound was a delightful play-ground for us, and did infinite credit to my
mother's powers of contrivance. Forty years and more elapsed between my
first acquaintance with Weybridge and my last visit there. The Duke of
York's house at Oatlands, afterwards inhabited by my friends Lord and
Lady Ellesmere, had become a country hotel, pleasant to all its visitors
but those who, like myself, saw ghosts in its rooms and on its gravel
walks; its lovely park, a nest of "villas," made into a suburb of London
by the railroads that intersect in all directions the wild moorland
twenty miles from the city, which looked, when I first knew it, as if it
might be a hundred.
I read and spent a night at the Oatlands Hotel, and walked, before I did
so, to my mother's old cottage. The tiny house had had some small
additions, and looked new and neat and well cared for. The mound,
however, still stood its ground, and had relapsed into something of its
old savage condition; it would have warranted a theory of Mr. Oldbuck's
as to its possible former purposes and origin. I looked at its crumbled
and irregular wall, from which the turf had peeled or been washed away;
at the tangled growth of grasses and weeds round the top, crenellated
with many a breach and gap; and the hollow, now choked up with luxuriant
evergreens that overtopped the inclosure and forbade entrance to it, and
thought of my mother's work and my girlish play there, and was glad to
see her old sand-heap was still standing, though her planting had, with
the blessing of time, made it impenetrable to me.
Our cottage was the last decent dwelling on that side of the village;
between ourselves and the heath and pine wood there was one miserable
shanty, worthy of the poorest potato patch in Ireland. It was inhabited
by a ragged ruffian of the name of E----, whose small domain we
sometimes saw undergoing arable processes by the joint labor of his son
and heir, a ragged ruffian some sizes smaller than himself, and of a
half-starved jackass, harnessed together to the plow he was holding;
occasionally the team was composed of the quadruped and a tattered and
fierce-looking female biped, a more terrible object than even the man
and boy and beast whose labors she shared.
On the other side our nearest neighbors, separated from us by the common
and its boundary road, were a family of the name of ----, between whose
charming garden and pretty residence and our house a path was worn by a
constant interchange of friendly intercourse.
Although we all fished, I was the only member of the family who
inherited my mother's passion for it, and it only developed much later
in me, for at this time I often preferred taking a book under the trees
by the river-side, to throwing a line; but towards the middle of my life
I became a fanatical fisherwoman, and was obliged to limit my waste of
time to one day in the week, spent on the Lenox lakes, or I should
infallibly have wandered thither and dreamed away my hours on their
charming shores or smooth expanse daily.
CHAPTER V.
I have said that we all more or less joined in my mother's fishing mania
at Weybridge; but my sister, then a girl of about eleven years, never
had any liking for it, which she attributed to the fact that my mother
often employed her to bait the hook for her. My sister's "tender-hefted"
nature was horribly disgusted and pained by this process, but my own
belief is that had she inherited the propensity to catch fish, even that
would not have destroyed it in her. I am not myself a cruel or
hardhearted woman (though I have the hunter's passion very strongly),
and invariably baited my own hook, in spite of the disgust and horror I
experienced at the wretched twining of the miserable worms round my
fingers, and springing of the poor little live bait with its back
pierced with a hook. But I have never allowed any one to do this office
for me, because it seemed to me that to inflict such a task on any one,
because it was revolting to me, was not fair or sportsmanlike; and so I
went on torturing my own bait and myself, too eagerly devoted to the
sport to refrain from it, in spite of the price I condemned myself to
pay for it. Moreover, if I have ever had female companions on my fishing
excursions, I have invariably done this service for them, thinking the
process too horrid for them to endure; and have often thought that if I
were a man, nothing could induce me to marry a woman whom I had seen
bait her own hook with any thing more sensitive than paste.
The dogs, fully occupied with each other, and with discursive raids
right and left of the road, and parenthetical rushes in various
directions for their own special delectation, would sometimes, returning
to us at full gallop, tumble over poor puss and roll her unceremoniously
down in their headlong career. She never, however, turned back for this,
but, recovering her feet, with her back arched all but in two, and every
hair of her tail standing on end with insulted dignity, vented in a
series of spittings and swearings her opinion of dogs in general and
those dogs in particular, and then resumed her own decently demure gait
and deportment; thanking Heaven, I have no doubt, in her cat's soul,
that she was not that disgustingly violent and ill-mannered beast--a
dog.
My brothers shared with us our fishing excursions and these walks, when
at home from school; besides, I was promoted to their nobler
companionship by occasionally acting as long-stop or short-stop (stop of
some sort was undoubtedly my title) in insufficiently manned or boyed
games of cricket: once, while nervously discharging this onerous duty, I
received a blow on my instep from a cricket ball which I did not stop,
that seemed to me a severe price for the honor of sharing my brothers'
manly pastimes. A sport of theirs in which I joined with more
satisfaction was pistol-shooting at a mark: I had not a quick eye, but a
very steady hand, so that with a deliberate aim I contrived to hit the
mark pretty frequently. I liked this quiet exercise of skill better than
that dreadful watching and catching of cannon-balls at cricket; though
the noise of the discharge of fire-arms was always rather trying to me,
and I especially resented my pistol missing fire when I had braced my
courage for the report. My brother John at this time possessed a rifle
and a fowling-piece, with the use of both of which he endeavored to
familiarize me; but the rifle I found insupportably heavy, and as for
the other gun, it kicked so unmercifully, in consequence, I suppose, of
my not holding it hard enough against my shoulder the first time I fired
it, that I declined all further experiments with it, and reverted to the
pretty little lady-like pocket pistols, which were the only fire-arms I
ever used until one fine day, some years later, when I was promoted to
the honor of firing an American cannon on the practicing ground of the
young gentlemen cadets of West Point.
This gentleman did not long retain possession of Oatlands, and it was
let to the Earl of Ellesmere, then Lord Francis Egerton, with whom and
Lady Francis we became acquainted soon after their taking it; an
acquaintance which on my part grew into a strong and affectionate regard
for both of them. They were excellent and highly accomplished, and, when
first I knew them, two of the handsomest and most distinguished-looking
persons I have ever seen.
Our happy Weybridge summers, which succeeded each other for three years,
had but one incident of any importance for me--my catching the
small-pox, which I had very severely. A slight eruption from which my
sister suffered was at first pronounced by our village �sculapius to be
chicken-pox, but presently assumed the more serious aspect of varioloid.
My sister, like the rest of us, had been carefully vaccinated; but the
fact was then by no means so generally understood as it now is, that the
power of the vaccine dies out of the system by degrees, and requires
renewing to insure safety. My mother, having lost her faith in
vaccination, thought that a natural attack of varioloid was the best
preservative from small-pox, and my sister having had her seasoning so
mildly and without any bad result but a small scar on her long nose, I
was sent for from London, where I was, with the hope that I should take
the same light form of the malady from her; but the difference of our
age and constitution was not taken into consideration, and I caught the
disease, indeed, but as nearly as possible died of it, and have remained
disfigured by it all my life.
I was but little over sixteen, and had returned from school a very
pretty-looking girl, with fine eyes, teeth, and hair, a clear, vivid
complexion, and rather good features. The small-pox did not affect my
three advantages first named, but, besides marking my face very
perceptibly, it rendered my complexion thick and muddy and my features
heavy and coarse, leaving me so moderate a share of good looks as quite
to warrant my mother's satisfaction in saying, when I went on the stage,
"Well, my dear, they can't say we have brought you out to exhibit your
beauty." Plain I certainly was, but I by no means always looked so; and
so great was the variation in my appearance at different times, that my
comical old friend, Mrs. Fitzhugh, once exclaimed, "Fanny Kemble, you
are the ugliest and the handsomest woman in London!" And I am sure, if a
collection were made of the numerous portraits that have been taken of
me, nobody would ever guess any two of them to be likenesses of the same
person.
Mrs. F---- is among the most vivid memories of my girlish days. She and
her husband were kind and intimate friends of my father and mother. He
was a most amiable and genial Irish gentleman, with considerable
property in Ireland and Suffolk, and a fine house in Portland Place, and
had married his cousin, a very handsome, clever, and eccentric woman. I
remember she always wore a bracelet of his hair, on the massive clasp of
which were engraved the words, "Stesso sangue, stessa sorte." I also
remember, as a feature of sundry dinners at their house, the first gold
dessert service and table ornaments that I ever saw, the magnificence of
which made a great impression upon me; though I also remember their
being replaced, upon Mrs. F---- wearying of them, by a set of ground
glass and dead and burnished silver, so exquisite, that the splendid
gold service was pronounced infinitely less tasteful and beautiful.
Mrs. Malkin was a more uncommon person than her husband; the strength of
her character and sweetness of her disposition were alike admirable, and
the bright vivacity of her countenance and singular grace and dignity of
her person must be a pleasant memory in the minds of all who, like
myself, knew her while she was yet in the middle bloom of life.
Dr. and Mrs. Malkin's sons were my brother's school and college mates.
They were all men of ability, and good scholars, as became their
father's sons. Sir Benjamin, the eldest, achieved eminence as a lawyer,
and became an Indian judge; and the others would undoubtedly have risen
to distinction but for the early death that carried off Frederick and
Charles, and the hesitation of speech which closed almost all public
careers to their brother Arthur.
I have said that all Dr. Malkin's sons were men of more than average
ability; but one, who never lived to be a man, "died a most rare boy" of
about six years, fully justifying by his extraordinary precocity and
singular endowments the tribute which his bereaved father paid his
memory in a modest and touching record of his brief and remarkable
existence.
Among our most intimate friends at this time were my cousin Horace Twiss
and his wife. I have been reminded of him in speaking of James Smith,
because he had a good deal of the same kind of humor, not unmixed with a
vein of sentiment, and I remember his songs, which he sang with great
spirit and expression, with the more pleasure that he never required me
to accompany them. One New-Year's Eve that he spent with us, just before
going away he sang charmingly some lines he had composed in the course
of the evening, the graceful turn of which, as well as the feeling with
which he sang them, were worthy of Moore. I remember only the burden:
It was delightful to hear him and my mother talk together, and their
disputes, though frequent, seemed generally extremely amicable, and as
diverting to themselves as to us. On one occasion he ended their
discussion (as to whether some lady of their acquaintance had or had not
gone somewhere) by a vehement declaration which passed into a proverb in
our house: "Yes, yes, she did; for a woman will go anywhere, at any
time, with anybody, to see any thing--especially in a gig." Those were
days in which a gig was a vehicle the existence of which was not only
recognized in civilized society, but supposed to confer a diploma of
"gentility" upon its possessor.
Horace Twiss was one of the readiest and most amusing talkers in the
world, and when he began to make his way in London society, which he
eventually did very successfully, ill-natured persons considered his
first step in the right direction to have been a repartee made in the
crush-room of the opera, while standing close to Lady L----, who was
waiting for her carriage. A man he was with saying, "Look at that fat
Lady L----; isn't she like a great white cabbage?" "Yes," answered
Horace, in a discreetly loud tone, "she _is_ like one--all heart, I
believe." The white-heart cabbage turned affably to the rising
barrister, begged him to see her to her carriage, and gave him the
_entr�e_ of H---- House. Lord Clarendon subsequently put him in
Parliament for his borough of Wootton-Basset, and for a short time he
formed part of the ministry, holding one of the under-secretaryships. He
was clever, amiable, and good-tempered, and had every qualification for
success in society.
The proprietors were engaged in a lawsuit with each other, and finally
one of them threw the whole concern into chancery; and for years that
dreary chancery suit seemed to envelop us in an atmosphere of
palpitating suspense or stagnant uncertainty, and to enter as an
inevitable element into every hope, fear, expectation, resolution,
event, or action of our lives.
How unutterably heart-sick I became of the very sound of its name, and
how well I remember the expression on my father's careworn face one day,
as he turned back from the door, out of which he was going to his daily
drudgery at the theater, to say to my aunt, who had reproached him with
the loss of a button from his rather shabby coat, "Ah, Dall, my dear,
you see it is my chancery suit!"
Lord Eldon, Sir John Leach, Lord Lyndhurst, and Lord Brougham were the
successive chancellors before whom the case was heard; the latter was a
friend of my family, and on one occasion my father took me to the House
of Lords to hear the proceedings. We were shown into the chancellor's
room, where he indeed was not, but where his huge official wig was
perched upon a block; the temptation was irresistible, and for half a
minute I had the awful and ponderous periwig on my pate.
While we were still living in Soho Square our house was robbed; or
rather, my father's writing-desk was broken open, and sixty sovereigns
taken from it--a sum that he could very hardly spare. He had been at the
theater, acting, and my mother had spent the evening at some friend's
house, and the next morning great was the consternation of the family on
finding what had happened. The dining-room sideboard and _cellarette_
had been opened, and wine and glasses put on the table, as if our
robbers had drank our good health for the success of their attempt.
A Bow Street officer was sent for; I remember his portly and imposing
aspect very well; his name was Salmon, and he was a famous member of his
fraternity. He questioned my mother as to the honesty of our servants;
we had but three, a cook, housemaid, and footman, and for all of these
my mother answered unhesitatingly; and yet the expert assured her that
very few houses were robbed without connivance from within.
The servants were had up and questioned, and the cook related how,
coming down first thing in the morning, she had found a certain back
scullery window open, and, alarmed by that, had examined the lower
rooms, and found the dining-room table set out with the decanters and
glasses. Having heard her story, the officer, as soon as she left the
room, asked my mother if any thing else besides the money had been
taken, and if any quantity of the wine had been drank. She said, "No,"
and with regard to the last inquiry, she supposed, as the cook had
suggested when the decanters were examined, that the thieves had
probably been disturbed by some alarm, and had not had time to drink
much.
Mr. Salmon then requested to look at the kitchen premises; the cook
officiously led the way to the scullery window, which was still open,
"just as she found it," she said, and proceeded to explain how the
robbers must have got over the wall of a court which ran at the back of
the house. When she had ended her demonstrations and returned to the
kitchen, Salmon, who had listened silently to her story of the case,
detained my mother for an instant, and rapidly passed his hand over the
outside window-sill, bringing away a thick layer of undisturbed dust,
which the passage of anybody through the window must infallibly have
swept off. Satisfied at once of the total falsity of the cook's
hypothesis, he told my mother that he had no doubt at all that she was a
party to the robbery, that the scullery window and dining-room drinking
scene were alike mere blinds, and that in all probability she had let
into the house whoever had broken open the desk, or else forced it
herself, having acquired by some means a knowledge of the money it
contained; adding, that in the very few words of interrogatory which had
passed between him and the servants, in my mother's presence, he had
felt quite sure that the housemaid and man were innocent; but had
immediately detected something in the cook's manner that seemed to him
suspicious. What a fine tact of guilt these detectives acquire in their
immense experience of it! The cook was not prosecuted, but dismissed,
the money, of course, not being recoverable; it was fortunate that
neither she nor her honest friends had any suspicion of the contents of
three boxes lying in the drawing-room at this very time. They were
large, black leather cases, containing a silver helmet, shield, and
sword, of antique Roman pattern and beautiful workmanship--a public
tribute bestowed upon my uncle, and left by him to my father; they have
since become an ornamental trophy in my sister's house. They were then
about to be sent for safe keeping to Coutts's bank, and in the meantime
lay close to the desk that had been rifled of a more portable but far
less valuable booty.
Upon my uncle John's death his widow had returned to England, and fixed
her residence at a charming place called Heath Farm, in Hertfordshire.
Lord Essex had been an attached friend of my uncle's, and offered this
home on his property to Mrs. Kemble when she came to England, after her
long sojourn abroad with my uncle, who, as I have mentioned, spent the
last years of his life, and died, at Lausanne. Mrs. Kemble invited my
mother to come and see her soon after she settled in Hertfordshire, and
I accompanied her thither. Cashiobury Park thus became familiar ground
to me, and remains endeared to my recollection for its own beauty, for
the delightful days I passed rambling about it, and for the beginning of
that love bestowed upon my whole life by H---- S----. Heath Farm was a
pretty house, at once rural, comfortable, and elegant, with a fine
farm-yard adjoining it, a sort of cross between a farm and a manor
house; it was on the edge of the Cashiobury estate, within which it
stood, looking on one side over its lawn and flower-garden to the grassy
slopes and fine trees of the park, and on the other, across a road which
divided the two properties, to Lord Clarendon's place, the Grove. It had
been the residence of Lady Monson before her (second) marriage to Lord
Warwick. Close to it was a pretty cottage, also in the park, where lived
an old Miss M----, often visited by a young kinswoman of hers, who
became another of my life-long friends. T---- B----, Miss M----'s niece,
was then a beautiful young woman, whose singularly fine face and sweet
and spirited expression bore a strong resemblance to two eminently
handsome people, my father and Mademoiselle Mars. She and I soon became
intimate companions, though she was several years my senior. We used to
take long rambles together, and vaguely among my indistinct
recollections of her aunt's cottage and the pretty woodland round it,
mix sundry flying visions of a light, youthful figure, that of Lord
M----, then hardly more than a lad, who seemed to haunt the path of his
cousin, my handsome friend, and one evening caused us both a sudden
panic by springing out of a thicket on us, in the costume of a
Harlequin. Some years after this, when I was about to leave England for
America, I went to take leave of T---- B----. She was to be married the
next day to Lord M----, and was sitting with his mother, Lady W----, and
on a table near her lay a set of jewels, as peculiar as they were
magnificent, consisting of splendid large opals set in diamonds, black
enamel, and gold....
One of the ladies, going out one day, called back to the servant who was
closing the door behind her: "Tell the cook not to forget the
sally-lunns" (a species of muffin) "for tea, well greased on both sides,
and we'll put on our cotton gowns to eat them."
From the inimitably gay and dramatic laughing chorus and waltz of the
first scene to the divine melody in which the heroine expresses her
unshaken faith in Heaven, immediately before her lover's triumph closes
the piece, the whole opera is a series of exquisite conceptions, hardly
one of which does not contain some theme or passage calculated to catch
the dullest and slowest ear and fix itself on the least retentive
memory; and though the huntsman's and bridesmaid's choruses, of course,
first attained and longest retained a street-organ popularity, there is
not a single air, duet, concerted piece, or chorus, from which extracts
were not seized on and carried away by the least musical memories. So
that the advertisement of a German gentleman for a valet, who to other
necessary qualifications was to add the indispensable one of not being
able to whistle a note of "Der Freysch�tz," appeared a not unnatural
result of the universal furor for this music.
CHAPTER VI.
"London is all alive; the new king seems idolized by the people, and he
appears no less pleased with them; perhaps Sir George is amongst the
happiest of his subjects. His Majesty swears that nothing shall be
encouraged but _native talent_, and our friend is to get up a concert at
the Duke of Sussex's, where the royal family are all to dine, at which
none but English singers are to perform. Sir George dined with me on
Monday, and I perceive he has already arranged in his thoughts all he
proposes _to tell the queen about you_ on this occasion. It is evident
he flatters himself that he is to be deep in her Majesty's confidence."
Sir George Smart and his distinguished guest, Weber, were constantly at
our house while the rehearsals of "Oberon" went forward. The first day
they dined together at my father's was an event for me, especially as
Sir George, on my entering the room, took me by the hand, and drawing me
toward Weber, assured him that I and all the young girls in England were
over head and ears in love with him. With my guilty satchel round my
neck, I felt ready to sink with confusion, and stammered out something
about Herr von Weber's beautiful music, to which, with a comical,
melancholy smile, he replied, "Ah, my music! it is always my music, but
never myself!"
Baron Carl Maria von Weber was a noble-born Saxon German, whose very
irregular youth could hardly, one would suppose, have left him leisure
to cultivate or exercise his extraordinary musical genius; but though he
spent much of his early life in wild dissipation, and died in middle
age, he left to the world a mass of compositions of the greatest variety
and beauty, and a name which ranks among the most eminent in his
pre-eminently musical country. He was a little thin man, lame of one
foot, and with a slight tendency to a deformed shoulder. His hollow,
sallow, sickly face bore an expression of habitual suffering and ill
health, and the long, hooked nose, salient cheek-bones, light, prominent
eyes, and spectacles were certainly done no more than justice to in the
unattractive representation of my cherished portrait of him.
He had the air and manner of a well-born and well-bred man of the world,
a gentle voice, and a slow utterance in English, which he spoke but
indifferently and with a strong accent; he generally conversed with my
father and mother in French. One of the first visits he paid to Covent
Garden was in my mother's box, to hear Miss Paton and Braham (his prima
donna and tenor) in an oratorio. He was enthusiastic in his admiration
of Braham's fine performance of one of Handel's magnificent songs
("Deeper and deeper still," I think), but when, in the second part of
the concert, which consisted of a selection of secular music, the great
singer threw the house into ecstasies, and was tumultuously encored in
the pseudo-Scotch ballad of "Blue Bonnets over the Border," he was
extremely disgusted, and exclaimed two or three times, "Ah, that is
_beast_!" (Ah, cela est b�te!) to our infinite diversion. Much more
aggravating proof was poor Weber destined to have of the famous tenor's
love of mere popularity in his art, and strange enough, no doubt, to the
great German composer was the thirst for ignorant applause which induced
Braham to reject the beautiful, tender, and majestic opening air Weber
had written for him in the character of Huon, and insist upon the
writing of a battle-piece which might split the ears of the groundlings
and the gods, and furnish him an opportunity for making some of the
startling effects of lyrical declamation which never failed to carry his
audience by storm.
in which, to be sure, Braham charged with the Christians, and routed the
Paynims, and mourned for the wounded, and wept for the dead, and
returned in triumph to France in the joyous cabaletta, with wonderful
dramatic effect, such as, no doubt, the other song would never have
enabled him to produce. But the success of the song did not reconcile
Weber to what he considered the vulgarity and inappropriateness of its
subject, and the circumstance lowered his opinion both of the English
singer and of the English public very grievously.
Miss Paton married Lord William Lennox, was divorced from her husband
and married Mr. Wood, and pursued her career as a public singer for many
years successfully after this event; nor was her name in any way again
made a subject of public animadversion, though she separated herself
from Mr. Wood, and at one time was said to have entertained thoughts of
going into a Roman Catholic nunnery. Her singing was very admirable, and
her voice one of the finest in quality and compass that I ever heard.
The effects she produced on the stage were very remarkable, considering
the little intellectual power or cultivation she appeared to possess. My
father's expression of "an inspired idiot," though wrung from him by the
irritation of momentary annoyance, was really not inapplicable to her.
She sang with wonderful power and pathos her native Scotch ballads, she
delivered with great purity and grandeur the finest soprano music of
Handel, and though she very nearly drove poor Weber mad with her
apparent want of intelligence during the rehearsals of his great opera,
I have seldom heard any thing finer than her rendering of the difficult
music of the part of Reiza, from beginning to end, and especially the
scene of the shipwreck, with its magnificent opening recitative, "Ocean,
thou mighty monster!"
"Oberon" was brought out and succeeded; but in a degree so far below the
sanguine expectations of all concerned, that failure itself, though more
surprising, would hardly have been a greater disappointment than the
result achieved at such a vast expenditure of money, time, and labor.
The expectations of the public could not have been realized by any work
which was to be judged by comparison with their already permanent
favorite, "Der Freysch�tz." No second effort could have seemed any thing
but second-best, tried by the standard of that popular production; and
whatever judgment musicians and connoisseurs might pronounce as to the
respective merits of the two operas, the homely test of the "proof of
the pudding" being "in the eating" was decidedly favorable to the
master's earlier work; and my own opinion is, that either his
"Euryanthe" or his "Preciosa" would have been more popular with the
general English public than the finer and more carefully elaborated
music of "Oberon." The story of the piece (always a main consideration
in matters of art, with average English men and women) wanted interest,
certainly, as compared with that of its predecessor; the chivalric loves
and adventures of Huon of Bordeaux and the caliph's daughter were
indifferent to the audience, compared with the simple but deep interest
of the fortunes of the young German forester and his village bride; and
the gay and brilliant fairy element of the "Oberon" was no sort of
equivalent for the startling _diablerie_ of Zamiel, and the incantation
scene. The music, undoubtedly of a higher order than that of "Der
Freysch�tz," was incomparably more difficult and less popular. The whole
of the part of Reiza was trying in the extreme, even to the powers of
the great singer for whom it was written, and quite sure not to be a
favorite with prime donne from its excessive strain upon the voice,
particularly in what is the weaker part of almost all soprano registers;
and Reiza's first great aria, the first song of the fairy king, and
Huon's last song in the third act, are all compositions of which the
finest possible execution must always be without proportionate effect on
any audience, from the extreme difficulty of rendering them and their
comparative want of melody. By amateurs, out of Germany, the performance
of any part of the music was not likely ever to be successfully
attempted; and I do not think that a single piece in the opera found
favor with the street organists, though the beautiful opening chorus was
made into a church hymn by discarding the exquisite aerial fairy
symphonies and accompaniments; and the involuntary dance of the caliph's
court and servants at the last blast of the magical horn was for a short
time a favorite waltz in Germany.
Poor Weber's health, which had been wretched before he came to England,
and was most unfavorably affected by the climate, sank entirely under
the mortification of the comparatively small success of his great work.
He had labored and fretted extremely with the rehearsals, and very soon
after its production he became dangerously ill, and died--not, as people
said, of a broken heart, but of disease of the lungs, already far
advanced when he came to London, and doubtless accelerated by these
influences. He died in Sir George Smart's house, who gave me, as a
memorial of the great composer whom I had so enthusiastically admired, a
lock of his hair, and the opening paragraph of his will, which was
extremely touching and impressive in its wording.
The plaintive melody known as "Weber's Waltz" (said to have been his
last composition, found after his death under his pillow) was a tribute
to his memory by some younger German composer (Reichardt or Ries); but
though not his own, it owed much of its popularity to his name, with
which it will always be associated. Bellini transferred the air,
verbatim, into his opera of "Beatrice di Tenda," where it appears in her
song beginning, "Orombello, ah Sciagurato!" A circumstance which tended
to embitter a good deal the close of Weber's life was the arrival in
London of Rossini, to whom and to whose works the public immediately
transferred its demonstrations of passionate admiration with even more,
than its accustomed fickleness. Disparaging comparisons and contrasts to
Weber's disadvantage were drawn between the two great composers in the
public prints; the enthusiastic adulation of society and the great world
not unnaturally followed the brilliant, joyous, sparkling, witty
Italian, who was a far better subject for London _lionizing_ than his
sickly, sensitive, shrinking, and rather soured German competitor for
fame and public favor.
About this time I returned again to visit Mrs. Kemble at Heath Farm, and
renew my days of delightful companionship with H---- S----. Endless were
our walks and talks, and those were very happy hours in which, loitering
about Cashiobury Park, I made its echoes ring with the music of
"Oberon," singing it from beginning to end--overture, accompaniment,
choruses, and all; during which performances my friend, who was no
musician, used to keep me company in sympathetic silence, reconciled by
her affectionate indulgence for my enthusiasm to this utter postponement
of sense to sound. What with her peculiar costume and my bonnetless head
(I always carried my bonnet in my hand when it was possible to do so)
and frenzied singing, any one who met us might have been justified in
supposing we had escaped from the nearest lunatic asylum.
Occasionally we varied our rambles, and one day we extended them so far
that the regular luncheon hour found us at such a distance from home,
that I--hungry as one is at sixteen after a long tramp--peremptorily
insisted upon having food; whereupon my companion took me to a small
roadside ale-house, where we devoured bread and cheese and drank beer,
and while thus vulgarly employed beheld my aunt's carriage drive past
the window. If that worthy lady could have seen us, that bread and
cheese which was giving us life would inevitably have been her death;
she certainly would have had a stroke of apoplexy (what the French call
_foudroyante_), for gentility and propriety were the breath of life to
her, and of the highest law of both, which can defy conventions, she
never dreamed.
Another favorite indecorum of mine (the bread and cheese was mere mortal
infirmity, not moral turpitude) was wading in the pretty river that ran
through Lord Clarendon's place, the Grove; the brown, clear, shallow,
rapid water was as tempting as a highland brook, and I remember its
bright, flashing stream and the fine old hawthorn trees of the avenue,
alternate white and rose-colored, like clouds of fragrant bloom, as one
of the sunniest pictures of those sweet summer days.
The charm and seduction of bright water has always been irresistible to
me, a snare and a temptation I have hardly ever been able to withstand;
and various are the chances of drowning it has afforded me in the wild
mountain brooks of Massachusetts. I think a very attached maid of mine
once saved my life by the tearful expostulations with which she opposed
the bewitching invitations of the topaz-colored flashing rapids of
Trenton Falls, that looked to me in some parts so shallow, as well as so
bright, that I was just on the point of stepping into them, charmed by
the exquisite confusion of musical voices with which they were
persuading me, when suddenly a large tree-trunk of considerable weight
shot down their flashing surface and was tossed over the fall below,
leaving me to the natural conclusion, "Just such a log should I have
been if I had gone in there." Indeed, my worthy Marie, overcome by my
importunity, having selected what seemed to her a safe, and to me a very
tame, bathing-place, in another and quieter part of the stream, I had
every reason, from my experience of the difficulty of withstanding its
powerful current there, to congratulate myself upon not having tried the
experiment nearer to one of the "springs" of the lovely torrent, whose
Indian name is the "Leaping Water." Certainly the pixies--whose cousin
my friends accused me of being, on account of my propensity for their
element--if they did not omit any opportunity of alluring me, allowed me
to escape scathless on more than one occasion, when I might have paid
dearly for being so much or so little related to them.
On another occasion, coming over the Wengern Alp from Grindelwald one
sultry summer day, my knees were shaking under me with the steep and
prolonged descent into Lauterbrunnen. Just at the end of the wearisome
downward way an exquisite brook springs into the Lutschine, as it flies
through the valley of waterfalls, and into this I walked straight, to
the consternation of my guides and dear companion, a singularly
dignified little American lady, of Quaker descent and decorum, who was
quite at a loss to conceive how, after such an exploit, I was to present
myself to the inhabitants, tourists, and others of the little street and
its swarming hotels, in my drenched and dripping condition; but, as I
represented to her, nothing would be easier: "I shall get on my mule and
ride sprinkling along, and people will only say, 'Ah, cette pauvre dame!
qui est tomb�e � l'eau!'"
Among her books I came upon Wraxall's "Memoirs of the House of Valois,"
and, reading it with great avidity, determined to write an historical
novel, of which the heroine should be Fran�oise de Foix, the beautiful
Countess de Ch�teaubriand. At this enterprise I now set eagerly to work,
the abundant production of doggerel suffering no diminution from this
newer and rather soberer literary undertaking, to which I added a brisk
correspondence with my absent friend, and a task she had set me (perhaps
with some vague desire of giving me a little solid intellectual
occupation) of copying for her sundry portions of "Harris's Hermes;" a
most difficult and abstruse grammatical work, much of which was in
Latin, not a little in Greek. All these I faithfully copied, Chinese
fashion, understanding the English little better than the two dead
languages which I transcribed--the Greek without much difficulty, owing
to my school-day proficiency in the alphabet of that tongue. These
literary exercises, walks within bounds, drives with my aunt, and the
occasional solemnity of a dinner at Lord Essex's, were the events of my
life till my aunt, Mrs. Whitelock, came to Heath Farm and brought an
element of change into the procession of our days.
I think these two widowed ladies had entertained some notion that they
might put their solitude together and make society; but the experiment
did not succeed, and was soon judiciously abandoned, for certainly two
more hopelessly dissimilar characters never made the difficult
experiment of a life in common.
Mrs. Kemble, before she went to Switzerland, had lived in the best
London society, with which she kept up her intercourse by zealous
correspondence; the names of lords and ladies were familiar in her mouth
as household words, and she had undoubtedly an undue respect for
respectability and reverence for titled folk; yet she was not at all
superficially a vulgar woman. She was quick, keen, clever, and shrewd,
with the air, manner, dress, and address of a finished woman of the
world. Mrs. Whitelock was simple-hearted and single-minded, had never
lived in any English society whatever, and retorted but feebly the
fashionable gossip of the day which reached Mrs. Kemble through the
London post, with her transatlantic reminiscences of Prince Talleyrand
and General Washington. She was grotesque in her manner and appearance,
and a severe thorn in the side of her conventionally irreproachable
companion, who has been known, on the approach of some coroneted
carriage, to observe pointedly, "Mrs. Whitelock, there is an
_ekkipage_." "I see it, ma'am," replied the undaunted Mrs. Whitelock,
screwing up her mouth and twirling her thumbs in a peculiarly emphatic
way, to which she was addicted in moments of crisis. Mrs. Kemble, who
was as quick as Pincher in her movements, rang the bell and snapped out,
"Not at home!" denying herself her stimulating dose of high-life gossip,
and her companion what she would have called a little "genteel
sociability," rather than bring face to face her fine friends and Mrs.
Whitelock's flounced white muslin apron and towering Pamela cap, for she
still wore such things. I have said that Mrs. Kemble was not
(superficially) a vulgar woman, but it would have taken the soul of
gentility to have presented, without quailing, her amazingly odd
companion to her particular set of visitors. A humorist would have found
his account in the absurdity of the scene all round; and Jane Austen
would have made a delicious chapter of it; but Mrs. Kemble had not the
requisite humor to perceive the fun of her companion, her acquaintances,
and herself in juxtaposition. I have mentioned her mode of pronouncing
the word equipage, which, together with several similar peculiarities
that struck me as very odd, were borrowed from the usage of London good
society in the days when she frequented it. My friend, Lord Lansdowne,
never called London any thing but _Lunnon_, and always said _obleege_
for oblige, like the Miss Berrys and Mrs. F---- and other of their
contemporaries, who also said _ekkipage_, _pettikits_, _divle_. Since
their time the pronunciation of English in good society, whose usage is
the only acknowledged law in that matter, and the grammatical
construction of the language habitual in that same good society, has
become such as would have challenged the severest criticism, if we had
ventured upon it in my father's house.
We were now occupying the last of the various houses which for a series
of years we inhabited at Bayswater; it belonged to a French Jew diamond
seller, and was arranged and fitted up with the peculiar tastefulness
which seems innate across the Channel, and inimitable even on the
English side of it. There was one peculiarity in the drawing-room of
this house which I have always particularly liked: a low chimney with a
window over it, the shutter to which was a sliding panel of
looking-glass, so that both by day and candle light the effect was
equally pretty.
Do not be alarmed; the person for whom we are in black has been so
little known to me since my childhood, was so old and infirm, and
so entirely cheerful, resigned, and even desirous of leaving this
world, that few, even of those who knew and loved him better than I
did, could, without selfishness, lament his release. Mr. Twiss, the
father of my cousin Horace, is dead lately; and it is of him that I
speak. He has unfortunately left three daughters, who, though doing
well for themselves in the world, will now feel a sad void in the
circle of their home affections and interests.
And now, dear H----, for myself, or ourselves, rather; for, as you
may well suppose, my whole thoughts are taken up with our
circumstances.
The creditors have declared that they are entirely satisfied that
my father, and Messrs. Forbes and Willett, the other partners, have
done every thing with respect to them which honorable men could do,
and offer to wait till some compromise can be made with Mr. Harris,
who, it is thought, will be willing to enter into any arrangement
rather than be irretrievably ruined, as we all must be unless some
agreement takes place between the proprietors. In the meantime, the
lawyers have advised our party to appeal from the decision of the
Vice-Chancellor. Amid all this perplexity and trouble, we have had
the satisfaction of hearing that John and Henry are both doing
well; we received a letter from the latter a short time ago, full
of affection and kindness to us all. I wish you could have seen my
father's countenance as he read it, and with what fondness and
almost gratitude he kissed dear Henry's name, while the tears were
standing in his eyes. I can not help thinking sometimes that my
father deserved a less hard and toilsome existence.
He has resolved that, come what may, he will keep those boys at
their respective schools, if he can by any means compass it; and if
(which I fear is the case) he finds Bury St. Edmunds too expensive,
we shall remove to Westminster, in order that Henry's education may
not suffer from our circumstances. Last Thursday was my father's
benefit, and a very indifferent one, which I think is rather hard,
considering that he really slaves night and day, and every night
and every day, in that theater. Cecilia Siddons and I have opened a
poetical correspondence; she writes very prettily indeed. Perhaps,
had she not had such a bad subject as myself to treat of, I might
have said more of her verses. You will be sorry to hear that not
only my poor mother's health, but what is almost as precious, her
good spirits, have been dreadfully affected by all her anxiety;
indeed, her nerves have been so utterly deranged that she has been
alternately deaf and blind, and sometimes both, for the last
fortnight. Thank Heaven she is now recovering!
I received your letter the day before yesterday, and felt very much
obliged to you for it, and was particularly interested by your
description of Kenilworth, round which Walter Scott's admirable
novel has cast a halo of romance forever; for many who would have
cared little about it as the residence of Leicester, honored for
some days by the presence of Elizabeth, will remember with a thrill
of interest and pity the night poor Amy Robsart passed there, and
the scene between her, Leicester, and the queen, when that prince
of villains, Varney, claims her as his wife. But in spite of the
romantic and historical associations belonging to the place, I do
not think it would have "inspired my muse."
I am glad you like Miss W----, but take care not to like her better
than me; and I am very glad you think of Heath Farm sometimes, for
there, I know, I must be in some corner or other of the picture, be
the foreground what it may. At this time, when the hawthorn is all
out and the nightingales are singing, even here, I think of the
quantities of May we gathered for my wreaths, and the little scrap
of the nightingale's song we used to catch on the lawn between tea
and bedtime. I have been writing a great deal of poetry--at least I
mean it for such, and I hope it is not all very bad, as my father
has expressed himself surprised and pleased at some things I read
him lately. I wish I could send you some of my perpetrations, but
they are for the most part so fearfully long that it is impossible.
You ask about my uncle's monument: I can tell you nothing about it
at present; it is where the memory of the public, the perseverance
of the projectors, Flaxman's genius, and John Kemble's fame are. Do
you know where that is? No more do I.
I am sure you will rejoice with us all when I inform you that John
has at length exerted himself successfully, and has obtained one of
the highest literary honors conferred by Cambridge on its students:
these are his tutor's very words, therefore I leave you to imagine
how delighted and grateful we all are; indeed, the day we received
the intelligence, we all, with my father at our head, looked more
like hopeful candidates for Bedlam than any thing else. My poor
father jumped, and clapped his hands, and kissed the letter, like a
child; as my mother says, "I am glad he has one gleam of sunshine,
at least;" he sadly wanted it, and I know nothing that could have
given him so much pleasure. Pray tell my aunt Kemble of it. I dare
say she will be glad to hear it. [My brother's tutor was Mr.
Peacock, the celebrated mathematician, well known at Cambridge as
one of the most eminent members of the university, and a private
tutor of whom all his pupils were deservedly proud; even those who,
like my brother John, cultivated the classical studies in
preference to the severe scientific subjects of which Mr. Peacock
was so illustrious a master. His praise of my brother was
regretful, though most ungrudging, for his own sympathy was
entirely with the intellectual pursuits for which Cambridge was
peculiarly famous, as the mathematical university, in
contradistinction to the classical tendency supposed to prevail at
this time among the teachers and students of Oxford.]
And now let me thank you for your last long letter, and the
detailed criticism it contained of my lines; if they oftener passed
through such a wholesome ordeal, I should probably scribble less
than I do. You ask after my novel of "Fran�oise de Foix," and my
translation of Sismondi's History; the former may, perhaps, be
finished some time these next six years; the latter is, and has
been, in Dr. Malkin's hands ever since I left Heath Farm. What you
say of scriptural subjects I do not always think true; for
instance, "By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept," does not
appear to me to have lost much beauty by Byron's poetical
paraphrase. We are really going to leave this pleasant place, and
take up our abode in Westminster; how I shall regret my dear little
room, full of flowers and books, and with its cheerful view. Enfin
il n'y faut plus penser. I have, luckily, the faculty of easily
accommodating myself to circumstances, and though sorry to leave my
little hermitage, I shall soon take root in the next place. With
all my dislike to moving, my great wish is to travel; but perhaps
that is not an absolute inconsistency, for what I wish is never to
remain long enough in a place to take root, or, having done so,
never to be transplanted. I am writing a journal, and its pages,
like our many pleasant hours of conversation, are a whimsical
medley of the sad, the sober, the gay, the good, the bad, and the
ridiculous; not at all the sort of serious, solemn journal you
would write.
I am afraid you are wondering once more whether I have the gout in
my hands; but so many circumstances have latterly arisen to occupy
my time and attention that I have had but little leisure for
letter-writing. You are now once more comfortably re-established in
your little turret chamber [Miss S----'s room in her home,
Ardgillan Castle], which I intend to come and storm some day,
looking over your pleasant lawn to the beautiful sea and hills. I
ought to envy you, and yet, when I look round my own little
snuggery, which is filled with roses and the books I love, and
where not a ray of sun penetrates, though it is high noon and
burning hot, I only envy you your own company, which I think would
be a most agreeable addition to the pleasantness of my little room.
I am sadly afraid, however, that I shall soon be called upon to
leave it, for though our plans are still so unsettled as to make it
quite impossible to say what will be our destination, it is, I
think, almost certain that we shall leave this place.
We have had Mrs. Henry Siddons, with her youngest daughter, staying
with us for a short time; she is now going on through Paris to
Switzerland, on account of my cousin's delicate health, which
renders Scotland an unsafe residence for her. John is also at home
just now, which, as you may easily believe, is an invaluable gain
to me; I rather think, however, that my mother is not of that
opinion, for he talks and thinks of nothing but politics, and she
has a great dread of my becoming imbued with his mania; a needless
fear, I think, however, for though I am willing and glad to listen
to his opinions and the arguments of his favorite authors, I am
never likely to study them myself, and my interest in the whole
subject will cease with his departure for Cambridge.
Henry returned from Bury St. Edmunds, and my father left us for
Lancaster last night, and we are now in daily expectation of
departing for Weybridge, so that the last fortnight has been one
continual bustle.
I have had another reason for not writing to you, which I have only
just made up my mind to tell you. Dick ---- has been taking my
likeness, or rather has begun to do so. I thought, dear H----, that
you would like to have this sketch, and I was in hopes that the
first letter you received in Ireland from me would contain it; but,
alas! Dick is as inconstant and capricious as a genius need be, and
there lies my fac-simile in a state of non-conclusion; they all
tell me it is very like, but it does appear to me so pretty that I
am divided between satisfaction and incredulity. My father, I
lament to say, left us last night in very bad spirits. I never saw
him so depressed, and feared that my poor mother would suffer
to-day from her anxiety about him; however, she is happily pretty
well to-day, and I trust will soon, what with Weybridge and
pike-fishing, recover her health and spirits entirely.
FANNY.
The "Dick" mentioned in this letter was the nephew of my godmother, Miss
A---- W----, of Stafford, and son of Colonel ----, a Staffordshire
gentleman of moderate means, who went to Germany and settled at
Darmstadt, for the sake of giving a complete education in foreign
languages and accomplishments to his daughters. His eldest son was in
the Church. They resided at the little German court till the young girls
became young women, remarkable for their talents and accomplishments. In
the course of their long residence at Darmstadt they had become intimate
with the reigning duke and his family, whose small royalty admitted of
such friendly familiarity with well-born and well-bred foreigners. But
when Colonel ---- brought his wife and daughters back to England, like
most other English people who try a similar experiment, the change from
being decided _somebodies_ in the court circle of a German principality
(whose sovereign was chiefly occupied, it is true, with the government
of his opera-house) to being decided _nobodies_ in the huge mass of
obscure, middle-class English gentility, was all but intolerable to
them.
The peculiar gift of their second son, my eccentric friend Richard, was
a genius for painting, which might have won him an honored place among
English artists, had he ever chosen to join their ranks as a competitor
for fame and fortune.
As nobody but myself can give you any opinion of it, you must be
content to take my own, making all allowances for etc., etc., etc.
I think, irrespective of age or sex, it is not a bad play--perhaps,
considering both, a tolerably fair one; there is some good writing
in it, and good situations; the latter I owe to suggestions of my
mother's, who is endowed with what seems to me really a science by
itself, i.e. the knowledge of producing dramatic effect; more
important to a playwright than even true delineation of character
or beautiful poetry, in spite of what Alfieri says: "Un attore che
dir� bene, delle cose belle si far� ascoltare per forza." But the
"ben dire cose belle" will not make a play without striking
situations and effects succeed, for all that; at any rate with an
English audience of the present day. Moreover (but this, as well as
everything about my play, must be _entre nous_ for the present), my
father has offered me either to let me sell my play to a
bookseller, or to buy it for the theatre at fifty pounds.
Fifty pounds is the very utmost that any bookseller would give for
a successful play, _mais en revanche_, by selling my play to the
theater it cannot be read or known as a literary work, and as to
make a name for myself as a writer is the aim of my ambition, I
think I shall decline his offer. My dearest H----, this quantity
about myself and my pursuits will, I am afraid, appear very
egotistical to you, but I rely on your unchangeable affection for
me to find some interest in what is interesting me so much.
CHAPTER VII.
The success of the English theater in Paris was quite satisfactory; and
all the most eminent members of the profession--Kean, Young, Macready,
and my father--went over in turn to exhibit to the Parisian public
Shakespeare the Barbarian, illustrated by his barbarian
fellow-countrymen. I do not remember hearing of any very eminent actress
joining in that worthy enterprise; but Miss Smithson, a young lady with
a figure and face of Hibernian beauty, whose superfluous native accent
was no drawback to her merits in the esteem of her French audience,
represented to them the heroines of the English tragic drama; the
incidents of which, infinitely more startling than any they were used
to, invested their fair victim with an amazing power over her foreign
critics, and she received from them, in consequence, a rather
disproportionate share of admiration--due, perhaps, more to the
astonishing circumstances in which she appeared before them than to the
excellence of her acting under them.
FANNY.
Your letter was short and sweet, but none the sweeter for being
short. I should have thought no one could have been worse provided
than myself with news or letter chit-chit, and yet I think my
letters are generally longer than yours; brevity, in you, is a
fault; do not be guilty of it again: "car du reste," as Madame de
S�vign� says, "votre style est parfait." John returned to Cambridge
on Thursday night. He is a great loss to me, for though I have seen
but little of him since our return to town, that little is too much
to lose of one we love. He is an excellent fellow in every way, and
in the way of abilities he is particularly to my mind. We all miss
him very much; however, his absence will be broken now by visits to
London, in order to keep his term [about this time my brother was
entered at the Inner Temple, I think], so that we shall
occasionally enjoy his company for a day or two. I should like to
tell you something about my play, but unluckily have nothing to
tell; everything about it is as undecided as when last I wrote to
you. It is in the hands of the copyist of Covent Garden, but what
its ultimate fate is to be I know not. If it is decided that it is
to be brought out on the stage before publication, that will not
take place at present, because this is a very unfavorable time of
year. If I can send it to Ireland, tell me how I can get it
conveyed to you, and I will endeavor to do so. I should like you to
read it, but oh, _how_ I should like to go and see it acted with
you! I am now full of thoughts of writing a comedy, and have drawn
out the plan of one--plot, acts, and scenes in due order--already;
and I mean to make it Italian and medi�val, for the sake of having
one of those bewitching creatures, a jester, in it; I have an
historical one in my play, Triboulet, whom I have tried to make an
interesting as well as an amusing personage.
We have been to the play pretty regularly twice a week for the last
three weeks, and shall continue to do so during the whole winter;
which is a plan I much approve of. I am very fond of going to the
play, and Kean, Young, and my father make one of Shakespeare's
plays something well worth seeing. I saw the "Merchant of Venice"
the other evening, for the first time, and returned home a violent
_Keanite_. That man is an extraordinary creature! Some of the
things he did, appeared, on reflection, questionable to my judgment
and open to criticism; but while under the influence of his amazing
power of passion it is impossible to reason, analyze, or do
anything but surrender one's self to his forcible appeals to one's
emotions. He entirely divested Shylock of all poetry or elevation,
but invested it with a concentrated ferocity that made one's blood
curdle. He seemed to me to combine the supernatural malice of a
fiend with the base reality of the meanest humanity. His passion is
prosaic, but all the more intensely terrible for that very reason.
I am to see him to-morrow in "Richard III.," and, though I never
saw the play before, am afraid I shall be disappointed, because
Richard III. is a Plantagenet Prince, and should be a royal
villain, and I am afraid Mr. Kean will not have the innate
_majesty_ which I think belongs to the part; however, we shall see,
and when next I write I will tell you how it impressed me.
You deserve that I should bestow all my tediousness upon you, for
loving me as well as you do. Mrs. Harry Siddons and her daughter
are here for two or three days, on their return from their tour
through Switzerland. Mrs. Harry is all that is excellent, though
she does not strike me as particularly clever; and Lizzy is a very
pretty, very good, very sweet, very amiable girl. Her brother, my
cousin, the midshipman, is here too, having come up from Portsmouth
to meet his mother and sister, so that the house is full. Think of
that happy girl having travelled all through Switzerland, seen the
Jungfrau--Manfred's mountain--been in two violent storms at night
on the lakes, and telling me placidly that "she liked it all very
well." Oh dear, oh dear! how queerly Heaven does distribute
privileges! Good-by, dear.
Yours ever,
FANNY.
16 ST. JAMES STREET, BUCKINGHAM GATE, December, 1827.
MY DEAREST H----,
My heart is full of joy, and I write that you may rejoice with me;
our dear John has distinguished himself greatly, but lest my words
should seem sisterly and exaggerated, I will repeat what Mr.
Peacock, his tutor, wrote to my father: "He has covered himself
with glory. Such an oration as his has not been heard for many
years in Cambridge, and it was as tastefully and modestly delivered
as it was well written." This has made us all _very, very_ happy,
and though the first news of it overcame my poor mother, whose
nerves are far from firm, she soon recovered, and we are
impatiently expecting his return from college. My play is at
present being pruned by my father, and will therefore not occupy my
thoughts again till it comes out, which I hope will be at Easter. I
did not write sooner, because I had nothing to say; but now that
this joy about my brother has come to me, _je te l'envoie_. Since
last you heard from me I have seen the great West India Dock and
the Thames Tunnel. Oh, H----, "que c'est une jolie chose que
l'homme!" Annihilated by any one of the elements if singly opposed
to its power, he by his genius yet brings their united forces into
bondage, and compels obedience from all their manifold combined
strength. We penetrate the earth, we turn the course of rivers, we
exalt the valleys and bow down the mountains; and we die and return
to our dust, and they remain and remember us no more. Often enough,
indeed, the names of great inventors and projectors have been
overshadowed or effaced by mere finishers of their work or adapters
of their idea, who have reaped the honor and emolument due to an
obscure originator, who passes away from the world, his rightful
claim to its admiration and gratitude unknown or unacknowledged.
But these obey the law of their being; they cannot but do the work
God's inspiration calls them to.
But I must tell you what this tunnel is like, or at least try to do
so. You enter, by flights of stairs, the first door, and find
yourself on a circular platform which surrounds the top of a well
or shaft, of about two hundred feet in circumference and five
hundred in depth. This well is an immense iron frame of cylindrical
form, filled in with bricks; it was constructed on level ground,
and then, by some wonderful mechanical process, sunk into the
earth. In the midst of this is a steam engine, and above, or below,
as far as your eye can see, huge arms are working up and down,
while the creaking, crashing, whirring noises, and the swift
whirling of innumerable wheels all round you, make you feel for the
first few minutes as if you were going distracted. I should have
liked to look much longer at all these beautiful, wise, working
creatures, but was obliged to follow the last of the party through
all the machinery, down little wooden stairs and along tottering
planks, to the bottom of the well. On turning round at the foot of
the last flight of steps through an immense dark arch, as far as
sight could reach stretched a vaulted passage, smooth earth
underfoot, the white arches of the roof beyond one another
lengthening on and on in prolonged vista, the whole lighted by a
line of gas lamps, and as bright, almost, as if it were broad day.
It was more like one of the long avenues of light that lead to the
abodes of the genii in fairy tales, than anything I had ever
beheld. The profound stillness of the place, which was first broken
by my father's voice, to which the vaulted roof gave extraordinary
and startling volume of tone, the indescribable feeling of
subterranean vastness, the amazement and delight I experienced,
quite overcame me, and I was obliged to turn from the friend who
was explaining everything to me, to cry and ponder in silence. How
I wish you had been with us, dear H----! Our name is always worth
something to us: Mr. Brunel, who was superintending some of the
works, came to my father and offered to conduct us to where the
workmen were employed--an unusual favor, which of course delighted
us all. So we left our broad, smooth path of light, and got into
dark passages, where we stumbled among coils of ropes and heaps of
pipes and piles of planks, and where ground springs were welling up
and flowing about in every direction, all which was very strange.
As you may have heard, the tunnel caved in once, and let the Thames
in through the roof; and in order that, should such an accident
occur again, no lives may be lost, an iron frame has been
constructed--a sort of cage, divided into many compartments, in
each of which a man with his lantern and his tools is placed--and
as they clear the earth away this iron frame is moved onward and
advances into new ground. All this was wonderful and curious beyond
measure, but the appearance of the workmen themselves, all
begrimed, with their brawny arms and legs bare, some standing in
black water up to their knees, others laboriously shovelling the
black earth in their cages (while they sturdily sung at their
task), with the red, murky light of links and lanterns flashing and
flickering about them, made up the most striking picture you can
conceive. As we returned I remained at the bottom of the stairs
last of all, to look back at the beautiful road to Hades, wishing I
might be left behind, and then we reascended, through wheels,
pulleys, and engines, to the upper day. After this we rowed down
the river to the docks, lunched on board a splendid East Indiaman,
and came home again. I think it is better for me, however, to look
at the trees, and the sun, moon, and stars, than at tunnels and
docks; they make me too _humanity proud_.
FANNY.
Yours ever,
FANNY.
This lady knew no language but her own, and to that ignorance (which one
is tempted in these days occasionally to think desirable) she probably
owed the remarkable power and purity with which she used her mother
tongue. Her conversation and her letters were perfect models of spoken
and written English. Her marriage with Mr. Montagu was attended with
some singular circumstances, the knowledge of which I owe to herself.
She was a Yorkshire widow lady, and came with her only child (a little
girl) to visit some friends in London, with whom Basil Montagu was
intimate. Mrs. S---- had probably occasionally been the subject of
conversation between him and her hosts, when they were expecting her;
for one evening soon after her arrival, as she was sitting partly
concealed by one of the curtains in the drawing-room, Basil Montagu came
rapidly into the room, exclaiming (evidently not perceiving her), "Come,
where is your wonderful Mrs. S----? I want to see her." During the whole
evening he engrossed her attention and talked to her, and the next
morning at breakfast she laughingly complained to her hosts that he had
not been content with that, but had tormented her in dreams all night.
"For," said she, "I dreamt I was going to be married to him, and the day
before the wedding he came to me with a couple of boxes, and said
solemnly, 'My dear Anne, I want to confide these relics to your keeping;
in this casket are contained the bones of my dear first wife, and in
this those of my dear second wife; do me the favor to take charge of
them for me.'" The odd circumstance was that Basil Montagu had been
married twice, and that when he made his third matrimonial venture, and
was accepted by Mrs. S----, he appeared before her one day, and with
much solemnity begged her to take charge of two caskets, in which were
respectively treasured, not the bones, but the letters of her two
predecessors. It is quite possible that he might have heard of her dream
on the first night of their acquaintance, and amused himself with
carrying it out when he was about to marry her; but when Mrs. Montagu
told me the story I do not think she suggested any such rationalistic
solution of the mystery. Her daughter, Anne S---- (afterwards Mrs.
Procter), who has been all my life a kind and excellent friend to me,
inherited her remarkable mother's mental gifts and special mastery over
her own language; but she added to these, as part of her own
individuality, a power of sarcasm that made the tongue she spoke in and
the tongue she spoke with two of the most formidable weapons any woman
was ever armed with. She was an exceedingly kind-hearted person,
perpetually occupied in good offices to the poor, the afflicted, her
friends, and all whom she could in any way serve; nevertheless, such was
her severity of speech, not unfrequently exercised on those she appeared
to like best, that Thackeray, Browning, and Kinglake, who were all her
friendly intimates, sometimes designated her as "Our Lady of
Bitterness," and she is alluded to by that title in the opening chapter
of "Eothen." A daily volume of wit and wisdom might have been gathered
from her familiar talk, which was _crisp_, with suggestions of thought
in the liveliest and highest form. Somebody asking her how she and a
certain acrid critic of her acquaintance got on together, she replied,
"Oh, very well; we sharpen each other like two knives." Being
congratulated on the restoration of cordiality between herself and a
friend with whom she had had some difference, "Oh yes," said she, "the
cracked cup is mended, but it will never hold water again." Both these
ladies, mother and daughter, had a most extraordinary habit of crediting
their friends with their own wise and witty sayings; thus Mrs. Montagu
and Mrs. Procter would say, "Ah yes, you know, as you once said," and
then would follow something so sparkling, profound, concise, incisive,
and brilliant, that you remained, eyes and mouth open, gasping in
speechless astonishment at the merit of the saying you never said (and
couldn't have said if your life had depended on it), and the
magnificence of the gift its author was making you. The princes in the
Arabian Nights, who only gave you a ring worth thousands of sequins,
were shabby fellows compared with these ladies, who declared that the
diamonds and rubies of their own uttering had fallen from your lips.
Persons who lay claim to the good things of others are not rare; those
who do not only disclaim their own, but even credit others with them,
are among the very rarest. In all my intercourse with the inhabitants of
_two_ worlds, I have known no similar instance of self-denial; and
reflecting upon it, I have finally concluded that it was too superhuman
to be a real virtue, and could proceed only from an exorbitant
superabundance of natural gift, which made its possessors reckless,
extravagant, and even unprincipled in the use of their wealth; they had
wit enough for themselves, and to spare for all their friends, and these
were many.
CHAPTER VIII.
Mrs. Jameson felt the impulse of the time, as it reached her through
Lady Byron and Miss Nightingale, and warmly embraced the wider and more
enlightened aspect of women's duties beginning to be advocated with
extreme enthusiasm in English society. One of the last books she
published was a popular account of foreign Sisters of Mercy, their
special duties, the organization of their societies, and the sphere of
their operations; suggesting the formation of similar bodies of
religiously charitable sisterhoods in England. She had this subject so
much at heart, she told me, that she had determined to give a series of
public lectures upon it, provided she found her physical power equal to
the effort of making herself heard by an audience in any public room of
moderate size. She tested the strength of her chest and voice by
delivering one lecture to an audience assembled in the drawing-rooms of
a friend; but, as she never repeated the experiment, I suppose she found
the exertion too great for her.
When first I met Mrs. Jameson she was an attractive-looking young woman,
with a skin of that dazzling whiteness which generally accompanies
reddish hair, such as hers was; her face, which was habitually refined
and _spirituelle_ in its expression, was capable of a marvelous power of
concentrated feeling, such as is seldom seen on any woman's face, and is
peculiarly rare on the countenance of a fair, small, delicately featured
woman, all whose personal characteristics were essentially feminine. Her
figure was extremely pretty; her hands and arms might have been those of
Madame de Warens.
Mrs. Jameson told me that the idea of giving public lectures had
suggested itself to her in the course of her conversations with Lady
Byron upon the possible careers that might be opened to women. I know
Lady Byron thought a very valuable public service might be rendered by
women who so undertook to advocate important truths of which they had
made special study, and for the dissemination of which in this manner
they might be especially gifted. She accepted in the most liberal manner
the claim put forward by women to more extended spheres of usefulness,
and to the adoption of careers hitherto closed to them; she was deeply
interested, personally, in some who made the arduous attempt of studying
and practicing medicine, and seemed generally to think that there were
many directions in which women might follow paths yet unopened, of high
and noble exertion, and hereafter do society and the cause of progress
good service.
Lady Byron was a peculiarly reserved and quiet person, with a manner
habitually deliberate and measured, a low, subdued voice, and rather
diffident hesitation in expressing herself: and she certainly conveyed
the impression of natural reticence and caution. But so far from ever
appearing to me to justify the description often given of her, of a
person of exceptionally cold, hard, measured intellect and character,
she always struck me as a woman capable of profound and fervid
enthusiasm, with a mind of rather a romantic and visionary order.
MY DEAREST H----,
I have been very ill for the last fortnight, but am well again now.
I am pressed for time to-day, but will soon write to you in
earnest.
I'm afraid you'll find my play very long; when my poor father began
cutting it, he looked ruefully at it, and said, "There's plenty of
it, Fan," to which my reply is Madame de S�vign�'s, "Si j'eusse eu
plus de temps, je ne t'aurais pas �crit si longuement." Dear H----,
if you knew how I thought of you, and the fresh, sweet mayflowers
with which we filled our baskets at Heath Farm, while I lay parched
and full of pain and fever in my illness!
Yours ever,
FANNY.
I was already at this time familiar enough with the theory of ghosts, of
which one need not be afraid, through Nicolai of Berlin's interesting
work upon the curious phantasmagoria of apparitions, on which he made
and recorded so many singular observations. Moreover, my mother, from a
combination of general derangement of the system and special affection
of the visual nerves, was at one time constantly tormented by whole
processions and crowds of visionary figures, of the origin and nature of
which she was perfectly aware, but which she often described as
exceedingly annoying by their grotesque and distorted appearance, and
wearisome from their continual recurrence and thronging succession. With
the recovery of her general health she obtained a release from this
disagreeable haunting.
The only time I ever saw an apparition was under singularly unfavorable
circumstances for such an experience. I was sitting at midday in an
American railroad car, which every occupant but my maid and myself had
left to go and get some refreshment at the station, where the train
stopped some time for that purpose. I was sitting with my maid in a
small private compartment, sometimes occupied by ladies travelling
alone, the door of which (wide open at the time) communicated with the
main carriage, and commanded its entire length. Suddenly a person
entered the carriage by a door close to where I sat, and passed down the
whole length of the car. I sprang from my seat, exclaiming aloud, "There
is C----!" and rushed to the door before, by any human possibility, any
one could have reached the other end of the car; but nobody was to be
seen. My maid had seen nothing. The person I imagined I had seen was
upwards of two hundred miles distant; but what was to me the most
curious part of this experience was that had I really met the person I
saw anywhere, my most careful endeavor would have been to avoid her,
and, if possible, to escape being seen by her; whereas this apparition,
or imagination, so affected my nerves that I rushed after it as if
desirous of pursuing and overtaking it, while my deliberate desire with
regard to the image I thus sprang towards would have been never to have
seen it again as long as I lived. The state of the atmosphere at the
time of this occurrence was extraordinarily oppressive, and charged with
a tremendous thunder-storm, a condition of the air which, as I have
said, always acts with extremely distressing and disturbing influence
upon my whole physical system.
Good-by; God bless you! I shall be very anxious to hear from you; I
sent you a note with my play, telling you I had just got up from
the measles; but as my note has not reached you, I tell you so
again. I am quite well, however, now, and shall not give them to
you by signing myself
I think Mrs. Jameson would like you, and you her, if you met, but
my mind is running on something else than this. My father's income
is barely eight hundred a year. John's expenses, since he has been
at college, have been nearly three. Five hundred a year for such a
family as ours is very close and careful work, dear H----, and if
my going on the stage would nearly double that income, lessen my
dear father's anxieties for us all, and the quantity of work which
he latterly has often felt too much for him, and remove the many
privations which my dear mother cheerfully endures, as well as the
weight of her uncertainty about our future provision, would not
this be a "consummation devoutly to be wished"?
Now, dearest H----, don't bear malice, and, because I have not
written for so long, wait still longer before you answer. My mother
has been in the country for a few days, and has returned with a
terrible cough and cold, with which pleasant maladies she finds the
house full here to welcome her, so that we all croak in unison most
harmoniously. I was at the Siddonses' the other evening. My aunt
was suffering, I am sorry to say, with one of her terrible
headaches; Cecilia was pretty well, but as it was a _soir�e
chantante_, I had little opportunity of talking to either of them.
Did you mention my notion about going on the stage in any of your
letters to Cecy?
The skies are brightening and the trees are budding; it will soon
be the time of year when we first met. Pray remember me when the
hawthorn blossoms; hail, snow, or sunshine, I remember you, and am
ever your affectionate
FANNY.
The want of a settled place of residence compelled me, many years after
writing this letter, to destroy the letters of my friend, which I had
preserved until they amounted to many hundreds; my friend kept, in the
house that was her home from her fourteenth to her sixtieth year, all
mine to her--several thousands, the history of a whole human life--and
gave them back to me when she was upwards of seventy and I of sixty
years old; they are the principal aid to my memory in my present task of
retrospection.
She had passed through London on her way to the Continent, whither she
was going for the sake of the health of her youngest daughter, an
interesting and attractive young girl some years older than myself, who
at this time seemed threatened with imminent consumption. She had a
sylph-like, slender figure, tall, and bending and wavering like a young
willow sapling, and a superabundant profusion of glossy chestnut
ringlets, which in another might have suggested vigor of health and
constitution, but always seemed to me as if their redundant masses had
exhausted hers, and were almost too great a weight for her slim throat
and drooping figure. Her complexion was transparently delicate, and she
had dark blue eyes that looked almost preternaturally large. It seems
strange to remember this ethereal vision of girlish fragile beauty as
belonging to my dear cousin, who, having fortunately escaped the doom by
which she then seemed threatened, lived to become a most happy and
excellent wife and mother, and one of the largest women of our family,
all of whose female members have been unusually slender in girlhood and
unusually stout in middle and old age. When Mrs. Henry Siddons was
obliged to return to Edinburgh, which was her home, she was persuaded by
my mother to leave her daughter with us for some time; and for more than
a year she and her elder sister and their brother, a lad studying at the
Indian Military College of Addiscombe, were frequent inmates of our
house. The latter was an extremely handsome youth, with a striking
resemblance to his grandmother, Mrs. Siddons; he and my brother Henry
were certainly the only two of the younger generation who honorably
maintained the reputation for beauty of their elders; in spite of which,
and the general admiration they excited (especially when seen together),
perhaps indeed from some uncomfortable consciousness of their personal
advantages, they were both of them shamefaced and bashful to an unusual
degree.
Mrs. Henry Siddons, in her last stay with us, obtained my mother's
consent that I should go to Edinburgh to pay her a visit, which began by
being of indeterminate length, and prolonged itself for a year--the
happiest of my life, as I often, while it lasted, thought it would
prove; and now that my years are over I know to have been so. To the
anxious, nervous, exciting, irritating tenor of my London life succeeded
the calm, equable, and all but imperceptible control of my dear friend,
whose influence over her children, the result of her wisdom in dealing
with them, no less than of their own amiable dispositions, was absolute.
In considering Mrs. Henry Siddons's character, when years had modified
its first impression upon my own, my estimate of it underwent, of
course, some inevitable alteration; but when I stayed with her in
Edinburgh I was at the idolatrous period of life, and never, certainly,
had an enthusiastic young girl worshiper a worthier or better idol.
She was not regularly handsome, but of a sweet and most engaging
countenance; her figure was very pretty, her voice exquisite, and her
whole manner, air, and deportment graceful, attractive, and charming.
Men, women, and children not only loved her, but inevitably _fell in
love_ with her, and the fascination which she exercised over every one
that came in contact with her invariably deepened into profound esteem
and confidence in those who had the good fortune to share her intimacy.
Her manner, which was the most gentle and winning imaginable, had in it
a touch of demure playfulness that was very charming, at the same time
that it habitually conveyed the idea of extreme self-control, and a
great reserve of moral force and determination underneath this quiet
surface.
Mrs. Harry's manner was artificial, and my mother told me she thought it
the result of an early determination to curb the demonstrations of an
impetuous temper and passionate feelings. It had become her second
nature when I knew her, however, and contributed not a little to the
immense ascendency she soon acquired over my vehement and stormy
character. She charmed me into absolute submission to her will and
wishes, and I all but worshiped her.
She was a Miss Murray, and came of good Scottish blood, her
great-grandfather having at one time been private secretary to the Young
Pretender. She married Mrs. Siddons's youngest son, Harry, the only one
of my aunt's children who adopted her own profession, and who, himself
an indifferent actor, undertook the management of the Edinburgh theater,
fell into ill-health, and died, leaving his lovely young widow with four
children to the care of her brother, William Murray, who succeeded him
in the government of the theater, of which his sister and himself became
joint proprietors.
Edinburgh at that time was still the small but important capital of
Scotland, instead of what railroads and modern progress have reduced it
to, merely the largest town. Those were the days of the giants, Scott,
Wilson, Hogg, Jeffrey, Brougham, Sidney Smith, the Horners, Lord Murray,
Allison, and all the formidable intellectual phalanx that held mental
dominion over the English-speaking world, under the blue and yellow
standard of the _Edinburgh Review_.
The ancient city had still its regular winter season of fashionable
gayety, during which sedan chairs were to be seen carrying through its
streets, to its evening assemblies, the more elderly members of the
_beau monde_. The nobility and gentry of Scotland came up from their
distant country residences to their town-houses in "Auld Reekie," as
they now come up to London.
On the other hand, when (as frequently happened) she had to embody
heroines whose characteristics coincided with her own, her grace and
beauty and innate sympathy with every thing good, true, pure, and
upright made her an admirable representative of all such characters. She
wanted physical power and weight for the great tragic drama of
Shakespeare, and passion for the heroine of his love tragedy; but Viola,
Rosalind, Isabel, Imogen, could have no better representative. In the
first part Sir Walter Scott has celebrated (in the novel of "Waverley")
the striking effect produced by her resemblance to her brother, William
Murray, in the last scene of "Twelfth Night;" and in many pieces founded
upon the fate and fortune of Mary Stuart she gave an unrivaled
impersonation of the "enchanting queen" of modern history.
My admiration and affection for her were, as I have said, unbounded; and
some of the various methods I took to exhibit them were, I dare say,
intolerably absurd, though she was graciously good-natured in tolerating
them.
Every day, summer and winter, I made it my business to provide her with
a sprig of myrtle for her sash at dinner-time; this, when she had worn
it all the evening, I received again on bidding her good night, and
stored in a _treasure_ drawer, which, becoming in time choked with
fragrant myrtle leaves, was emptied with due solemnity into the fire,
that destruction in the most classic form might avert from them all
desecration. I ought by rights to have eaten their ashes, or drunk a
decoction of them, or at least treasured them in a golden urn, but
contented myself with watching them shrivel and crackle with much
sentimental satisfaction. I remember a most beautiful myrtle tree,
which, by favor of a peculiarly sunny and sheltered exposure, had
reached a very unusual size in the open air in Edinburgh, and in the
flowering season might have borne comparison with the finest shrubs of
the warm terraces of the under cliff of the Isle of Wight. From this I
procured my daily offering to my divinity.
Beautiful Edinburgh! dear to me for all its beauty and all the happiness
that I have never failed to find there, for the keen delight of my year
of youthful life spent among its enchanting influences, and for the kind
friends and kindred whose affectionate hospitality has made each return
thither as happy as sadder and older years allowed--my blessing on every
stone of its streets!
I had the utmost liberty allowed me in my walks about the city, and at
early morning have often run up and round and round the Calton Hill,
delighting, from every point where I stopped to breathe, in the noble
panorama on every side. Not unfrequently I walked down to the sands at
Porto Bello and got a sea bath, and returned before breakfast; while on
the other side of the town my rambles extended to Newhaven and the rocks
and sands of Cramond Beach.
While Edinburgh had then more the social importance of a capital, it had
a much smaller extent; great portions of the present new town did not
then exist. Warriston and the Bridge of Dean were still out of town;
there was no Scott's monument in Princess Street, no railroad terminus
with its smoke and scream and steam scaring the echoes of the North
Bridge; no splendid Queen's Drive encircled Arthur's Seat. Windsor
Street, in which Mrs. Harry Siddons lived, was one of the most recently
finished, and broke off abruptly above gardens and bits of meadow land,
and small, irregular inclosures, and mean scattered houses, stretching
down toward Warriston Crescent; while from the balcony of the
drawing-room the eye, passing over all this untidy suburban district,
reached, without any intervening buildings, the blue waters of the Forth
and Inchkeith with its revolving light.
Standing on that balcony late one cold, clear night, watching the rising
and setting of that sea star that kept me fascinated out in the chill
air, I saw for the first time the sky illuminated with the aurora
borealis. It was a magnificent display of the phenomenon, and I feel
certain that my attention was first attracted to it by the crackling
sound which appeared to accompany the motion of the pale flames as they
streamed across the sky; indeed, _crackling_, is not the word that
properly describes the sound I heard, which was precisely that made by
the _flickering_ of blazing fire; and as I have often since read and
heard discussions upon the question whether the motion of the aurora is
or is not accompanied by an audible sound, I can only say that on this
occasion it was the sound that first induced me to observe the sheets of
white light that were leaping up the sky. At this time I knew nothing of
these phenomena, or the debates among scientific men to which they had
given rise, and can therefore trust the impression made on my senses.
Midnight after midnight I have stood, when the thermometer was twenty
and more degrees below freezing, looking over the silent, snow-smothered
hills round the small mountain village of Lenox, fast asleep in their
embrace, and from thence to the solemn sky rising above them like a huge
iron vault hung with thousands of glittering steel weapons, from which,
every now and then, a shining scimitar fell flashing earthward; it was a
cruel looking sky, in its relentless radiance.
CHAPTER IX.
I was coming home one day from a tramp toward Cramond Beach, and was
just on the brow of a wooded height looking towards Edinburgh and not
two miles from it, when a heavy thunder-cloud darkened the sky above my
head and pelted me with large drops of ominous warning. On one side of
the road the iron gate and lodge of some gentleman's park suggested
shelter; and the half-open door of the latter showing a tidy,
pleasant-looking woman busy at an ironing table, I ventured to ask her
to let me come in till the sponge overhead should have emptied itself.
She very good-humoredly consented, and I sat down while the rain rang
merrily on the gravel walk before the door, and smoked in its vehement
descent on the carriage-road beyond.
The woman pursued her work silently, and I presently became aware of a
little child, as silent as herself, sitting beyond her, in a small
wicker chair; on the baby's table which fastened her into it were some
remnants of shabby, broken toys, among which her tiny, wax-like fingers
played with listless unconsciousness, while her eyes were fixed on me.
The child looked wan and wasted, and had in its eyes, which it never
turned from me, the weary, wistful, unutterable look of "far away and
long ago" longing that comes into the miserably melancholy eyes of
monkeys.
"Ou na, mem; it's no to say that ill, only just always peaking and
pining like"--and she stopped ironing a moment to look at the little
creature.
"Is it your own baby?" said I, struck with the absence of motherly
tenderness in spite of the woman's compassionate tone and expression.
"Nigh upon five year old," was the answer, with which the ironing was
steadily resumed, with apparently no desire to encourage more questions.
"Five years old!" I exclaimed, in horrified amazement: its size was that
of a rickety baby under three, while its wizened face was that of a
spell-struck creature of no assignable age, or the wax image of some
dwindling life wasting away before the witch-kindled fire of a
diabolical hatred. The tiny hands and arms were pitiably thin, and
showed under the yellow skin sharp little bones no larger than a
chicken's; and at her wrists and temples the blue tracery of her veins
looked like a delicate map of the blood, that seemed as if it could
hardly be pulsing through her feeble frame; while below the eyes a livid
shadow darkened the faded face that had no other color in it.
The tears welled up into my eyes, and the woman, seeing them, suddenly
stopped ironing and exclaimed eagerly: "Ou, mem, ye ken the family; or
maybe ye'll hae been a friend of the puir thing's mither!" I was obliged
to say that I neither knew them nor any thing about them, but that the
child's piteous aspect had made me cry.
In answer to the questions with which I then plied her, the woman, who
seemed herself affected by the impression I had received from the poor
little creature's appearance, told me that the child was that of the
only daughter of the people who owned the place; that there was
"something wrong" about it all, she did not know what--a marriage
ill-pleasing to the grandparents perhaps, perhaps even worse than that;
but the mother was dead, the family had been abroad for upward of three
years, and the child had been left under her charge. This was all she
told me, and probably all she knew; and as she ended she wiped the tears
from her own eyes, adding, "I'm thinking the puir bairn will no live
long itsel'."
The rain was over and the sun shone, and I got up to go; as I went, the
child's dreary eyes followed me out at the door, and I cried all the way
home. Was it possible that my appearance suggested to that tiny soul the
image of its young lost mother?
I stopped at a cottage on the outskirts of the fishing town (it was not
much more than a village then) of Newhaven, and knocked. Invited to come
in, I did so, and there sat a woman, one of the very handsomest I ever
saw, in solitary state, leisurely combing a magnificent curtain of fair
hair that fell over her ample shoulders and bosom and almost swept the
ground. She was seated on a low stool, but looked tall as well as large,
and her foam-fresh complexion and gray-green eyes might have become
Venus Anadyomene herself, turned into a Scotch fish-wife of five and
thirty, or "thereawa." "Can you tell me of any one who will take me out
in a boat for a little while?" quoth I. She looked steadily at me for a
minute, and then answered laconically, "Ay, my man and boy shall gang
wi' ye." A few lusty screams brought her husband and son forth, and at
her bidding they got a boat ready, and, with me well covered with
sail-cloths, tarpaulins, and rough dreadnaughts of one sort and another,
rowed out from the shore into the turmoil of the sea. A very little of
the dancing I got now was delight enough for me, and, deadly sick, I
besought to be taken home again, when the matronly Brinhilda at the
cottage received me with open-throated peals of laughter, and then made
me sit down till I had conquered my qualms and was able to walk back to
Edinburgh. Before I went, she showed me a heap of her children, too many,
it seemed to me, to be counted; but as they lay in an inextricable mass
on the floor in an inner room, there may have seemed more arms and legs
forming the radii, of which a clump of curly heads was the center, than
there really were.
The husband was a comparatively small man, with dark eyes, hair, and
complexion; but her "boy," the eldest, who had come with him to take
care of me, was a fair-haired, fresh-faced young giant, of his mother's
strain, and, like her, looked as if he had come of the Northern Vikings,
or some of the Niebelungen Lied heroes.
When I went away, my fish-wife bade me come again in smooth weather, and
if her husband and son were at home they should take me out; and I gave
her my address, and begged her, when she came up to town with her fish,
to call at the house.
She was a splendid specimen of her tribe, climbing the steep Edinburgh
streets with bare white feet, the heavy fish-basket at her back hardly
stooping her broad shoulders, her florid face sheltered and softened in
spite of its massiveness into something like delicacy by the transparent
shadow of the white handkerchief tied hoodwise over her fair hair, and
her shrill sweet voice calling "Caller haddie!" all the way she went, in
the melancholy monotone that resounds through the thoroughfares of
Edinburgh--the only melodious street-cry (except the warning of the
Venetian gondoliers) that I ever heard.
I did not indulge in any more boating expeditions, but admired the sea
from the pier, and became familiar with all the spokes of the
fish-wife's family wheel; at any rate, enough to distinguish Jamie from
Sandy, and Willie from Johnnie, and Maggie from Jeanie, and Ailsie from
Lizzie, and was great friends with them all.
Among Mrs. Harry Siddons's intimate friends and associates were the
remarkable brothers George and Andrew Combe; the former a lawyer by
profession, but known to the literary and scientific world of Europe and
America as the Apostle of Phrenology, and the author of a work entitled
"The Constitution of Man," and other writings, whose considerable merit
and value appear to me more or less impaired by the craniological theory
which he made the foundation of all his works, and which to my mind
diminished the general utility of his publications for those readers who
are not prepared to accept it as the solution of all the mysteries of
human existence.
His writings are all upon subjects of the greatest importance and
universal interest, and full of the soundest moral philosophy and the
most enlightened humanity; and their only drawback, to me, is the
phrenological element which enters so largely into his treatment of
every question. Indeed, his life was devoted to the dissemination of
this new philosophy of human nature (new, at any rate, in the precise
details which Gall, Spurzheim, and he elaborated from it), which, Combe
believed, if once generally accepted, would prove the clew to every
difficulty, and the panacea for every evil existing in modern
civilization. Political and social, religious and civil, mental and
moral government, according to him, hinged upon the study and knowledge
of the different organs of the human brain, and he labored incessantly
to elucidate and illustrate this subject, upon which he thought the
salvation of the world depended. For a number of years I enjoyed the
privilege of his friendship, and I have had innumerable opportunities of
hearing his system explained by himself; but as I was never able to get
beyond a certain point of belief in it, it was agreed on all hands that
my brain was deficient in the organ of causality, _i.e._, in the
capacity of logical reasoning, and that therefore it was not in my power
to perceive the force of his arguments or the truth of his system, even
when illustrated by his repeated demonstrations.
I am bound to say that my cousin Cecilia Combe had quite as much trouble
with her household, her lady's-maids were quite as inefficient, her
housemaids quite as careless, and her cooks quite as fiery-tempered and
unsober as those of "ordinary Christians," in spite of Mr. Combe's
observation and manipulation of their bumps previous to engaging them.
Macdonald was an intimate friend of the Combes, and I used to see him at
their house very frequently, and Mr. Combe often came to the studio when
I was sitting. One day while he was standing by, grimly observing
Macdonald's absorbed manipulation of his clay, while I, the original
_clay_, occupied the "bad eminence" of an artist's studio throne, my
aunt came in with a small paper bag containing raspberry tarts in her
hand. This was a dainty so peculiarly agreeable to me that, even at that
advanced stage of my existence, those who loved me, or wished to be
loved by me, were apt to approach me with those charming three-cornered
puff paste propitiations.
"Yes," said I, "and I will tell you exactly where--in the last scene,
where I cover my face."
When next I met Macdonald it was after a long lapse of time, in 1846, in
Rome. Thither he had gone to study his divine art, and there he had
remained for a number of years in the exercise of it. He was now the
Signor Lorenzo of the Palazzo Barberini, the most successful and
celebrated maker of busts, probably, in Rome, having achieved fame,
fortune, the favor of the great, and the smiles of the fair, of the most
fastidious portion of the English society that makes its winter season
in Italy. He dined several times at our house (I was living with my
sister and her husband); under his guidance we went to see the statutes
of the Vatican by torchlight; and he came out once or twice in the
summer of that year to visit us at our villa at Frascati.
The next day I went to the gardener of the Villa Medici, an old friend
of mine, and begged him to procure a pot of snowdrops for me, which I
carried to Macdonald's studio, thinking an occasional reminiscence of
his own northern land, which he had not visited for years, not a bad
element to infuse into his Roman life and surroundings. Macdonald's
portraits are generally good likenesses, sufficiently idealized to be
also good works of art. In statuary he never accomplished any thing of
extraordinary excellence. I think the "Ulysses Recognized by his Dog"
his best performance in sculpture. His studio was an extremely
interesting place of resort, from the portraits of his many remarkable
sitters with which it was filled.
I met dear old Macdonald, in the winter of 1873, creeping in the sun
slowly up the Pincio as I waddled heavily down it (_Eheu!_), his
snow-white hair and moustache making his little-altered and strongly
marked features only more striking. I visited his studio and found
there, ardently and successfully creating immortal gods, a handsome,
pleasing youth, his son, inheriting his father's genius, and, strange to
say, his broadest of Scotch accents, though he had himself never been
out of Rome, where he was born.
On one occasion Mr. Combe was consulted by Prince Albert with regard to
the royal children, and was desired to examine their heads. He did not,
of course, repeat any of the opinions he had given upon the young
princes' "developments," but said they were very nice children, and
likely to be capitally educated, for, he added (though shaking his head
over cousinly intermarriages among royal personages), Prince Albert was
well acquainted with the writings of Gall and Spurzheim, and his own
work on "The Constitution of Man." Prince Albert seems to have known
something of every thing that was worthy of a Wiseman's knowledge.
Dr. Combe was Mrs. Harry Siddons's medical adviser, most trusted friend,
and general counselor. The young people of her family, myself included,
all loved and honored him; and the gleam of genial pleasant humor (a
quality of which his worthy brother had hardly a spark) which frequently
brightened the gentle gravity of his countenance and demeanor made his
intercourse delightful to us; and great was the joy when he proposed to
take one or other of us in his gig for a drive to some patient's house,
in the lovely neighborhood of Edinburgh. I remember my poor dear
mother's dismay when, on my return home, I told her of these same
drives. She was always in a fever of apprehension about people's falling
in love with each other, and begged to know how old a man this
delightful doctor, with whom Mrs. Harry allowed her own daughters and my
mother's daughters to go _gigging_, might be. "Ah," replied I,
inexpressibly amused at the idea of Dr. Combe in the character of a gay
gallant, "ever so old!" I had the real school-girl's estimate of age,
and honestly thought that dear Dr. Combe was quite an old man. I believe
he was considerably under forty. But if he had been much younger, the
fatal disease which had set its seal upon him, and of which he
died--after defending his life for an almost incredible space of time
from its ultimate victory (which all his wisdom and virtue could but
postpone)--was so clearly written upon his thin, sallow face, deep-sunk
eyes, and emaciated figure, and gave so serious and almost sad an
expression to his countenance and manner, that one would as soon have
thought of one's grandfather as an unsafe companion for young girls. I
still possess a document, duly drawn up and engrossed in the form of a
deed by his brother, embodying a promise which he made to me jestingly
one day, that when he was dead he would not fail to let me know, if ever
ghosts were permitted to revisit the earth, by appearing to me, binding
himself by this contract that the vision should be unaccompanied by the
smallest smell of sulphur or flash of blue flame, and that instead of
the indecorous undress of a slovenly winding-sheet, he would wear his
usual garments, and the familiar brown great-coat with which, to use his
own expression, he "buttoned his bones together" in his life. I
remembered that laughing promise when, years after it was given, the
news of his death reached me, and I thought how little dismay I should
feel if it could indeed have been possible for me to see again, "in his
image as he lived," that kind and excellent friend. On one of the
occasions when Dr. Combe took me to visit one of his patients, we went
to a quaint old house in the near neighborhood of Edinburgh. If the
Laird of Dumbiedike's mansion had been still standing, it might have
been that very house. The person we went to visit was an old Mr. M----,
to whom he introduced me, and with whom he withdrew, I suppose for a
professional consultation, leaving me in a strange, curious,
old-fashioned apartment, full of old furniture, old books, and faded,
tattered, old nondescript articles, whose purpose it was not easy to
guess, but which must have been of some value, as they were all
protected from the air and dust by glass covers. When the gentlemen
returned, Mr. M---- gratified my curiosity by showing every one of them
to me in detail, and informing me that they had all belonged to, or were
in some way relics of, Charles Edward Stuart. "And this," said the old
gentleman, "was his sword." It was a light dress rapier, with a very
highly cut and ornamented steel hilt. I half drew the blade, thinking
how it had flashed from its scabbard, startling England and dazzling
Scotland at its first unsheathing, and in what inglorious gloom of
prostrate fortunes it had rusted away at last, the scorn of those who
had opposed, and the despair of those who had embraced, its cause. "And
so that was the Pretender's sword!" said I, hardly aware that I had
spoken until the little, withered, snuff-colored gentleman snatched
rather than took it from me, exclaiming, "Wha' did ye say, madam? it was
the _prince's_ sword!" and laid it tenderly back in the receptacle from
which he had taken it.
As we drove away, Dr. Combe told me, what indeed I had perceived, that
this old man, who looked like a shriveled, russet-colored leaf for age
and feebleness, was a passionate partisan of Charles Edward, by whom my
mention of him as the Pretender, if coming from a man, would have been
held a personal insult. It was evident that I, though a mere chit of the
irresponsible sex, had both hurt and offended him by it. His sole
remaining interest in life was hunting out and collecting the smallest
records or memorials of this shadow of a hero; surely the merest "royal
apparition" that ever assumed kingship. "What a set those Stuarts must
have been!" exclaimed an American friend of mine once, after listening
to "Bonnie Prince Charlie," "to have had all those glorious Jacobite
songs made and sung for them, and not to have been more of men than they
were!" And so I think, and thought even then, for though I had a passion
for the Jacobite ballads, I had very little enthusiasm for their
thoroughly inefficient hero, who, for the claimant of a throne, was
undoubtedly _un tr�s pauvre sire_. Talking over this with me, as we
drove from Mr. M----'s, Dr. Combe said he was persuaded that at that
time there were men to be found in Scotland ready to fight a duel about
the good fame of Mary Stuart.
Sir Walter Scott told me that when the Scottish regalia was discovered,
in its obscure place of security, in Edinburgh Castle, pending the
decision of government as to its ultimate destination, a committee of
gentlemen were appointed its guardians, among whom he was one; and that
he received a most urgent entreaty from an old lady of the Maxwell
family to be permitted to see it. She was nearly ninety years old, and
feared she might not live till the crown jewels of Scotland were
permitted to become objects of public exhibition, and pressed Sir Walter
with importunate prayers to allow her to see them before she died. Sir
Walter's good sense and good nature alike induced him to take upon
himself to grant the poor old lady's petition, and he himself conducted
her into the presence of these relics of her country's independent
sovereignty; when, he said, tottering hastily forward from his support,
she fell on her knees before the crown, and, clasping and wringing her
wrinkled hands, wailed over it as a mother over her dead child. His
description of the scene was infinitely pathetic, and it must have
appealed to all his own poetical and imaginative sympathy with the
former glories of his native land.
My cousin Harry's wife was the second daughter of George Siddons, Mrs.
Siddons's eldest son, who through her interest was appointed, while
still quite a young man, to the influential and lucrative post of
collector of the port at Calcutta, which position he retained for nearly
forty years. He married a lady in whose veins ran the blood of the kings
of Delhi, and in whose descendants, in one or two instances, even in the
fourth generation, this ancestry reveals itself by a type of beauty of
strikingly Oriental character. Among these is the beautiful Mrs.
Scott-Siddons, whose exquisite features present the most perfect living
miniature of her great-grandmother's majestic beauty. In two curiously
minute, highly finished miniatures of the royal Hindoo personages, her
ancestors, which Mrs. George Siddons gave Miss Twiss (and the latter
gave me), it is wonderful how strong a likeness may be traced to several
of their remote descendants born in England of English parents.
Mr. William Murray, my dear Mrs. Harry's brother, was another member of
our society, to whom I have alluded, in speaking of the Edinburgh
Theater, as an accomplished actor; and sometimes I used to think that
was all he was, for it was impossible to determine whether the romance,
the sentiment, the pathos, the quaint humor, or any of the curiously
capricious varying moods in which these were all blended, displayed real
elements of his character or only shifting exhibitions of the peculiar
versatility of a nature at once so complex and so superficial that it
really was impossible for others, and I think would have been difficult
for himself, to determine what was genuine thought and feeling in him,
and what the mere appearance or demonstration or imitation of thought
and feeling. Perhaps this peculiarity was what made him such a perfect
actor. He was a very melancholy man, with a tendency to moody morbidness
of mind which made him a subject of constant anxiety to his sister. His
countenance, which was very expressive without being at all handsome,
habitually wore an air of depression, and yet it was capable of
brilliant vivacity and humorous play of feature. His conversation, when
he was in good spirits, was a delightful mixture of sentiment, wit,
poetry, fun, fancy and imagination. He had married the sister of Mrs.
Thomas Moore (the Bessie so tenderly invited to "fly from the world"
with the poet), and I used to think that he was like an embodiment of
Moore's lyrical genius: there was so much pathos and wit and humor and
grace and spirit and tenderness, and such a quantity of factitious
flummery besides in him, that he always reminded me of those pretty and
provoking songs in which some affected attitudinizing conceit mingles
with almost every expression of genuine feeling, like an artificial rose
in a handful of wild flowers.
I do not think William Murray's diamonds were of the finest water, but
his _paste_ was; and it was difficult enough to tell the one from the
other. He had a charming voice, and sang exquisitely, after a fashion
which I have no doubt he copied (as, however, only original genius can
copy) from Moore; but his natural musical facility was such that,
although no musician, and singing everything only by ear, he executed
the music of the Figaro in Mozart's "Nozze" admirably. He had a good
deal of his sister's winning charm of manner, and was (but not, I think,
of malice prepense) that pleasantly pernicious creature, a male flirt.
It was quite out of his power to address any woman (sister or niece or
cookmaid) without an air and expression of sentimental courtesy and
tender chivalrous devotion, that must have been puzzling and perplexing
in the extreme to the uninitiated; and I am persuaded that until some
familiarity bred--if not contempt, at least comprehension--every woman
of his acquaintance (his cook included) must have felt convinced that he
was struggling against a respectful and hopeless passion for her.
On one occasion I sat by Robert Chambers, and heard him relate some
portion of the difficulties and distresses of his own and his brother's
early boyhood (the interesting story has lately become generally known
by the publication of their memoirs); and I then found it very difficult
to swallow my dinner, and my tears, while listening to him, so deeply
was I affected by his simple and touching account of the cruel struggle
the two brave lads--destined to become such admirable and eminent
men--had to make against the hardships of their position. I remember his
describing the terrible longing occasioned by the smell of newly baked
bread in a baker's shop near which they lived, to their poor,
half-starved, craving appetites, while they were saving every farthing
they could scrape together for books and that intellectual sustenance of
which, in after years, they became such bountiful dispensers to all
English-reading folk. Theirs is a very noble story of virtue conquering
fortune and dedicating it to the highest purposes. I used to meet the
Messrs. Chambers at Mr. Combe's house; they were intimate and valued
friends of the phrenologist, and I remember when the book entitled
"Vestiges of Creation" came out, and excited so great a sensation in the
public mind, that Mr. Combe attributed the authorship of it, which was
then a secret, to Robert Chambers.
Of Madame Catalani, all I can say is that I think she sang only "God
save the King" and "Rule Britannia" on the occasion on which I heard
her, which was that of her last public appearance in Edinburgh. I
remember only these, and think had she sung any thing else I could not
have forgotten it. She was quite an old woman, but still splendidly
handsome. Her magnificent dark hair and eyes, and beautiful arms, and
her blue velvet dress with a girdle flashing with diamonds, impressed me
almost as much as her singing; which, indeed, was rather a declamatory
and dramatic than a musical performance. The tones of her voice were
still fine and full, and the majestic action of her arms as she uttered
the words, "When Britain first arose from the waves," wonderfully
graceful and descriptive; still, I remember better that I _saw_, than
that I _heard_, Madame Catalani. She is the first of the queens of song
that I have seen ascend the throne of popular favor, in the course of
sixty years, and pretty little Adelina Patti the last; I have heard all
that have reigned between the two, and above them all Pasta appears to
me pre-eminent for musical and dramatic genius--alone and unapproached,
the muse of tragic song.
CHAPTER X.
I think that more harm is frequently done by over than by under culture
in the moral training of youth. Judicious _letting alone_ is a precious
element in real education, and there are certain chords which, often
touched and made to vibrate too early, are apt to lose instead of
gaining power; to grow first weakly and morbidly sensitive, and then
hard and dull; and finally, when the full harmony of the character
depends upon their truth and depth of tone, to have lost some measure of
both under repeated premature handling.
"Cain" and "Manfred" were more especially the poems that stirred my
whole being with a tempest of excitement that left me in a state of
mental perturbation impossible to describe for a long time after reading
them. I suppose the great genius touched in me the spirit of our time,
which, chit as I was, was common to us both; and the mere fact of my
being _un enfant du si�cle_ rendered me liable to the infection of the
potent, proud, desponding bitterness of his writing.
The spirit of an age creates the spirit that utters it, and though
Byron's genius stamped its impress powerfully upon the thought and
feeling of his contemporaries, he was himself, after all, but a sort of
quintessence of _them_, and gave them back only an intensified,
individual extract of themselves. The selfish vanity and profligate vice
which he combined with his extraordinary intellectual gifts were as
peculiar to himself as his great mental endowments; and though fools may
have followed the fashion of his follies, the heart of all Europe was
not stirred by a fashion of which he set the example, but by a passion
for which he found the voice, indeed, but of which the key-note lay in
the very temper of the time and the souls of the men of his day. Goethe,
Alfieri, Ch�teaubriand, each in his own language and with his peculiar
national and individual accent, uttered the same mind; they stamped
their own image and superscription upon the coin to which, by so doing,
they gave currency, but the mine from whence they drew their metal was
the civilized humanity of the nineteenth century. It is true that some
of Solomon's coining rings not unlike Goethe's and Byron's; but Solomon
forestalled his day by being _blas�_ before the nineteenth century.
Doubtless the recipe for that result has been the same for individuals
ever since the world rolled, but only here and there a great king, who
was also a great genius, possessed it in the earlier times; it took all
the ages that preceded it to make the _blas�_ age, and Byron,
pre-eminently, to speak its mind in English--which he had no sooner done
than every nineteenth-century shop-boy in England quoted Byron, wore his
shirt-collar open, and execrated his destiny. Doubtless by grace of his
free-will a man may wring every drop of sap out of his own soul and help
his fellows like-minded with himself to do the same; but the everlasting
spirit of truth renews the vitality of the world, and while Byron was
growling and howling, and Shelley was denying and defying, Scott was
telling and Wordsworth singing things beautiful and good, and new and
true.
Certain it is, however, that the noble poet's glorious chanting of much
inglorious matter did me no good, and so I resolved to read that grand
poetry no more. It was a severe struggle, but I persevered in it for
more than two years, and had my reward; I broke through the thraldom of
that powerful spell, and all the noble beauty of those poems remained to
me thenceforth divested of the power of wild excitement they had
exercised over me. A great many years after this girlish effort and
sacrifice, Lady Byron, who was a highly esteemed friend of mine, spoke
to me upon the subject of a new and cheap edition of her husband's works
about to be published, and likely to be widely disseminated among the
young clerk and shopkeeper class of readers, for whom she deprecated
extremely the pernicious influence it was calculated to produce. She
consulted me on the expediency of appending to it some notice of Lord
Byron written by herself, which she thought might modify or lessen the
injurious effect of his poetry upon young minds. "Nobody," she said,
"knew him as I did" (this certainly was not the general impression upon
the subject); "nobody knew as well as I the causes that had made him
what he was; nobody, I think, is so capable of doing justice to him, and
therefore of counteracting the injustice he does to himself, and the
injury he might do to others, in some of his writings." I was strongly
impressed by the earnestness of her expression, which seemed to me one
of affectionate compassion for Byron and profound solicitude lest, even
in his grave, he should incur the responsibility of yet further evil
influence, especially on the minds of the young. I could not help
wondering, also, whether she did not shrink from being again, to a new
generation and a wider class of readers, held up to cruel ridicule and
condemnation as the cold-hearted, hard, pedantic prude, without sympathy
for suffering or relenting toward repentance. I had always admired the
reticent dignity of her silence with reference to her short and
disastrous union with Lord Byron, and I felt sorry, therefore, that she
contemplated departing from the course she had thus far steadfastly
pursued, though I appreciated the motive by which she was actuated. I
could not but think, however, that she overestimated the mischief
Byron's poetry was likely to do the young men of 1850, highly
prejudicial as it undoubtedly was to those of his day, illustrated, so
to speak, by the bad notoriety of his own character and career. But the
generation of English youth who had grown up with Thackeray, Dickens,
and Tennyson as their intellectual nourishment, seemed to me little
likely to be infected with Byronism, and might read his poetry with a
degree of impunity which the young people of his own time did not enjoy.
I urged this my conviction upon her, as rendering less necessary than
she imagined the antidote she was anxious to append to the poison of the
new edition of her husband's works. But to this she replied that she had
derived her impression of the probable mischief to a class peculiarly
interesting to him, from Frederick Robertson, and of course his opinion
was more than an overweight for mine.
Lady Byron did not, however, fulfill her purpose of prefacing the
contemplated edition of Byron's poems with a notice of him by herself,
which I think very likely to have been a suggestion of Mr. Robertson's
to her.
The Nortons' house was close to the issue from St. James's Park into
Great George Street. I remember passing an evening with them there, when
a host of distinguished public and literary men were crowded into their
small drawing-room, which was literally resplendent with the light of
Sheridan beauty, male and female: Mrs. Sheridan (Miss Callender, of
whom, when she published a novel, the hero of which commits forgery,
that wicked wit, Sidney Smith, said he knew she was a Callender, but did
not know till then that she was a Newgate calendar), the mother of the
Graces, more beautiful than anybody but her daughters; Lady Grahame,
their beautiful aunt; Mrs. Norton, Mrs. Blackwood (Lady Dufferin),
Georgiana Sheridan (Duchess of Somerset and queen of beauty by universal
consent), and Charles Sheridan, their younger brother, a sort of younger
brother of the Apollo Belvedere. Certainly I never saw such a bunch of
beautiful creatures all growing on one stem. I remarked it to Mrs.
Norton, who looked complacently round her tiny drawing-room and said,
"Yes, we are rather good-looking people." I remember this evening
because of the impression made on me by the sight of these wonderfully
"good-looking people" all together, and also because of my having had to
sing with Moore--an honor and glory hardly compensating the distress of
semi-strangulation, in order to avoid drowning his feeble thread of a
voice with the heavy, robust contralto which I found it very difficult
to swallow half of, while singing second to him, in his own melodies,
with the other half. My acquaintance with Mrs. Norton lasted through a
period of many years, and, though never very intimate, was renewed with
cordiality each time I returned to England. It began just after I came
out on the stage, when I was about twenty, and she a few years older. My
father and mother had known her parents and grandparents, Richard
Brinsley Sheridan and Miss Lindley, from whom their descendants derived
the remarkable beauty and brilliant wit which distinguished them.
My mother was at Drury Lane when Mr. Sheridan was at the head of its
administration, and has often described to me the extraordinary
proceedings of that famous first night of "Pizarro," when, at last
keeping the faith he had so often broken with the public, Mr. Sheridan
produced that most effective of melodramas, with my aunt and uncle's
parts still unfinished, and, depending upon their extraordinary rapidity
of study, kept them learning the last scenes of the last act, which he
was still writing, while the beginning of the piece was being performed.
By the by, I do not know what became of the theories about the dramatic
art, and the careful and elaborate study necessary for its perfection.
In this particular instance John Kemble's Rolla and Mrs. Siddons's
Elvira must have been what may be called extemporaneous acting. Not
impossibly, however, these performances may have gained in vivid power
and effect what they lost in smoothness and finish, from the very
nervous strain and excitement of such a mental effort as the actors were
thus called upon to make. My mother remembered well, too, the dismal
Saturdays when, after prolonged periods of non-payment of their
salaries, the poorer members of the company, and all the unfortunate
work-people, carpenters, painters, scene-shifters, understrappers of all
sorts, and plebs in general of the great dramatic concern, thronging the
passages and staircases, would assail Sheridan on his way to the
treasury with pitiful invocations: "For God's sake, Mr. Sheridan, pay us
our salaries!" "For Heaven's sake, Mr. Sheridan, let us have something
this week!" and his plausible reply of, "Certainly, certainly, my good
people, you shall be attended to directly." Then he would go into the
treasury, sweep it clean of the whole week's receipts (the salaries of
the principal actors, whom he dared not offend and could not dispense
with, being, if not wholly, partially paid), and, going out of the
building another way, leave the poor people who had cried to him for
their arrears of wages baffled and cheated of the price of their labor
for another week. The picture was not a pleasant one.
When I first knew Caroline Sheridan, she had not long been married to
the Hon. George Norton. She was splendidly handsome, of an un-English
character of beauty, her rather large and heavy head and features
recalling the grandest Grecian and Italian models, to the latter of whom
her rich coloring and blue-black braids of hair gave her an additional
resemblance. Though neither as perfectly lovely as the Duchess of
Somerset, nor as perfectly charming as Lady Dufferin, she produced a far
more striking impression than either of them, by the combination of the
poetical genius with which she alone, of the three, was gifted, with the
brilliant wit and power of repartee which they (especially Lady
Dufferin) possessed in common with her, united to the exceptional beauty
with which they were all three endowed. Mrs. Norton was extremely
epigrammatic in her talk, and comically dramatic in her manner of
narrating things. I do not know whether she had any theatrical talent,
though she sang pathetic and humorous songs admirably, and I remember
shaking in my shoes when, soon after I came out, she told me she envied
me, and would give anything to try the stage herself. I thought, as I
looked at her wonderful, beautiful face, "Oh, if you should, what would
become of me!" She was no musician, but had a deep, sweet contralto
voice, precisely the same in which she always spoke, and which, combined
with her always lowered eyelids ("downy eyelids" with sweeping silken
fringes), gave such incomparably comic effect to her sharp retorts and
ludicrous stories; and she sang with great effect her own and Lady
Dufferin's social satires, "Fanny Grey," and "Miss Myrtle," etc., and
sentimental songs like "Would I were with Thee," "I dreamt 'twas but a
Dream," etc., of which the words were her own, and the music, which only
amounted to a few chords with the simplest modulations, her own also. I
remember she used occasionally to convulse her friends _en petit comit�_
with a certain absurd song called "The Widow," to all intents and
purposes a piece of broad comedy, the whole story of which (the wooing
of a disconsolate widow by a rich lover, whom she first rejects and then
accepts) was comprised in a few words, rather spoken than sung, eked out
by a ludicrous burden of "rum-ti-iddy-iddy-iddy-ido," which, by dint of
her countenance and voice, conveyed all the alternations of the widow's
first despair, her lover's fiery declaration, her virtuous indignation
and wrathful rejection of him, his cool acquiescence and intimation that
his full purse assured him an easy acceptance in various other quarters,
her rage and disappointment at his departure, and final relenting and
consent on his return; all of which with her "iddy-iddy-ido" she sang,
or rather acted, with incomparable humor and effect. I admired her
extremely.
In 1841 I began a visit of two years and a half in England. During this
time I constantly met Mrs. Norton in society. She was living with her
uncle, Charles Sheridan, and still maintained her glorious supremacy of
beauty and wit in the great London world. She came often to parties at
our house, and I remember her asking us to dine at her uncle's, when
among the people we met were Lord Lansdowne and Lord Normanby, both then
in the ministry, whose good-will and influence she was exerting herself
to _captivate_ in behalf of a certain shy, silent, rather rustic
gentleman from the far-away province of New Brunswick, Mr. Samuel Cunard,
afterwards Sir Samuel Cunard of the great mail-packet line of steamers
between England and America. He had come to London an obscure and humble
individual, endeavoring to procure from the government the sole privilege
of carrying the transatlantic mails for his line of steamers. Fortunately
for him he had some acquaintance with Mrs. Norton, and the powerful
beauty, who was kind-hearted and good-natured to all but her natural
enemies (i.e. the members of her own London society), exerted all her
interest with her admirers in high place in favor of Cunard, and had made
this very dinner for the express purpose of bringing her provincial
_prot�g�_ into pleasant personal relations with Lord Lansdowne and Lord
Normanby, who were likely to be of great service to him in the special
object which had brought him to England. The only other individual I
remember at the dinner was that most beautiful person, Lady Harriet
d'Orsay. Years after, when the Halifax projector had become Sir Samuel
Cunard, a man of fame in the worlds of commerce and business of New York
and London, a baronet of large fortune, and a sort of proprietor of the
Atlantic Ocean between England and the United States, he reminded me of
this charming dinner in which Mrs. Norton had so successfully found the
means of forwarding his interests, and spoke with enthusiasm of her
kind-heartedness as well as her beauty and talents; he, of course, passed
under the Caudine Forks, beneath which all men encountering her had to
bow and throw down their arms. She was very fond of inventing devices for
seals, and other such ingenious exercises of her brains, and she gave
---- a star with the motto, "Procul sed non extincta," which she civilly
said bore reference to me in my transatlantic home. She also told me,
when we were talking of mottoes for seals and rings, that she had had
engraved on a ring she always wore the name of that miserable bayou of
the Mississippi--Atchafalaya--where Gabriel passes near one side of an
island, while Evangeline, in her woe-begone search, is lying asleep on
the other; and that, to her surprise, she found that the King of the
Belgians wore a ring on which he had had the same word engraved, as an
expression of the bitterest and most hopeless disappointment.
In 1845 I passed through London, and spent a few days there with my
father, on my way to Italy. Mrs. Norton, hearing of my being in town,
came to see me, and urged me extremely to go and dine with her before I
left London, which I did. The event of the day in her society was the
death of Lady Holland, about which there were a good many lamentations,
of which Lady T---- gave the real significance, with considerable
_na�vet�_: "Ah, poore deare Ladi Ollande! It is a grate pittie; it was
suche a _pleasant 'ouse!_" As I had always avoided Lady Holland's
acquaintance, I could merely say that the regrets I heard expressed
about her seemed to me only to prove a well-known fact--how soon the
dead were forgotten. The _real_ sorrow was indeed for the loss of her
house, that pleasantest of all London rendezvouses, and not for its
mistress, though those whom I then heard speak were probably among the
few who did regret her. Lady Holland had one good quality (perhaps more
than one, which I might have found out if I had known her): she was a
constant and exceedingly warm friend, and extended her regard and
remembrance to all whom Lord Holland or herself had ever received with
kindness or on a cordial footing. My brother John had always been
treated with great friendliness by Lord Holland, and in her will Lady
Holland, who had not seen him for years, left him as a memento a copy,
in thirty-two volumes, of the English essayists, which had belonged to
her husband.
I think it only humane to state, for the benefit of all mothers anxious
for their daughters', and all daughters anxious for their own, future
welfare in this world, that in the matter of what the lady's-maid in the
play calls "the first of earthly blessings--personal appearance,"
Caroline Sheridan as a girl was so little distinguished by the
exceptional beauty she subsequently developed, that her lovely mother,
who had a right to be exacting in the matter, entertained occasionally
desponding misgivings as to the future comeliness of one of the most
celebrated beauties of her day.
I have a great deal to tell you about our affairs, and the effect
that their unhappy posture seems likely to produce upon my future
plans and prospects. Do you remember a letter I wrote to you a long
time ago about going on the stage? and another, some time before
that, about my becoming a governess? The urgent necessity which I
think now exists for exertion, in all those who are capable of it
among us, has again turned my thoughts to these two considerations.
My father's property, and all that we might ever have hoped to
derive from it, being utterly destroyed in the unfortunate issue of
our affairs, his personal exertions are all that remain to him and
us to look to. There are circumstances in which reflections that
our minds would not admit at other times of necessity force
themselves upon our consideration. Those talents and
qualifications, both mental and physical, which have been so
mercifully preserved to my dear father hitherto, cannot, in the
natural course of things, all remain unimpaired for many more
years. It is right, then, that those of us who have the power to do
so should at once lighten his arms of all unnecessary burden, and
acquire the habit of independent exertion before the moment comes
when utter inexperience would add to the difficulty of adopting any
settled mode of proceeding; it is right and wise to prepare for the
evil day before it is upon us. These reflections have led me to the
resolution of entering upon some occupation or profession which may
enable me to turn the advantages my father has so liberally
bestowed upon me to some account, so as not to be a useless
incumbrance to him at present, or a helpless one in future time. My
brother John, you know, has now determined, to go into the Church.
Henry we have good although remote hopes of providing well for,
and, were I to make use of my own capabilities, dear little A----
would be the only one about whom there need be any anxiety. I
propose writing to my father before he returns home (he is at
present acting in the provinces) on this subject. Some step I am
determined to take; the nature of it will, of course, remain with
him and my mother. I trust that whatever course they resolve upon I
shall be enabled to pursue steadily, and I am sure that, be it what
it may, I shall find it comparatively easy, as the motive is
neither my own profit nor reputation, but the desire of bringing
into their right use whatever talents I may possess, which have not
been given for useless purposes. I hope and trust that I am better
fitted for either of the occupations I have mentioned than I was
when I before entertained an idea of them. You asked me what
inclined John's thoughts to the Church. It would be hard to say; or
rather, I ought to say, that Providence which in its own good time
makes choice of its instruments, and which I ever firmly trusted
would not suffer my brother's fine powers to be wasted on unworthy
aims. I am not able to say how the change which has taken place in
his opinions and sentiments was effected; but you know one has not
done _all_ one's thinking at two and twenty. I have been by
circumstances much separated from my brother, and when with him
have had but little communication upon such subjects. It was at a
time when, I think, his religious principles were somewhat
unsettled, that his mind was so passionately absorbed by politics.
The nobler instincts of his nature, diverted for a while from due
direct intercourse with their divine source, turned themselves with
enthusiastic, earnest hope to the desire of benefiting his
fellow-creatures; and to these aims--the reformation of abuses, the
establishment of a better system of government, the gradual
elevation and improvement of the people, and the general progress
of the country towards enlightened liberty and consequent
prosperity--he devoted all his thoughts. This was the period of his
fanatical admiration for Jeremy Bentham and Mill, who, you know,
are our near neighbors here, and whose houses we never pass without
John being inclined to salute them, I think, as the shrines of some
beneficent powers of renovation. And here comes the break in our
intercourse and in my knowledge of his mental and moral progress. I
went to Scotland, and was amazed, after I had been there some time,
to hear from my mother that John had not got his scholarship, and
had renounced his intention of going to the bar and determined to
study for the Church. I returned home, and found him much changed.
His high sense of the duties attending it makes me rejoice most
sincerely that he has chosen that career, which may not be the
surest path to worldly advancement, but if conscientiously followed
must lead, I should think, to the purest happiness this life can
offer. I think much of this change may be attributed to the example
and influence of some deservedly dear friends of his; probably
something to the sobering effect of the disappointment and
mortification of his failure at college, where such sanguine hopes
and expectations of his success had been entertained. Above all, I
refer his present purpose to that higher influence which has
followed him through all his mental wanderings, suggesting the
eager inquiries of his restless and dissatisfied spirit, and
finally leading it to this, its appointed goal. He writes to us in
high spirits from Germany, and his letters are very delightful.
Mrs. Siddons and Cecy are with Mrs. Kemble at Leamington. Mrs.
Harry Siddons is, I fear, but little better; she has had another
attack of erysipelas, and I am very anxious to get to her, but the
distance, and the dependence of all interesting young females in
London on the legs and leisure of chaperons, prevents me from
seeing her as often as I wish.
Yours ever,
FANNY.
I know he must have sinned and suffered, mortal man since he was, but I
do not wish to know how. From his plays, in spite of the necessarily
impersonal character of dramatic composition, we gather a vivid and
distinct impression of serene sweetness, wisdom, and power. In the
fragment of personal history which he gives us in his sonnets, the
reverse is the case; we have a painful impression of mournful struggling
with adverse circumstances and moral evil elements, and of the labor and
the love of his life alike bestowed on objects deemed by himself
unworthy; and in spite of his triumphant promise of immortality to the
false mistress or friend, or both, to whom (as far as he has revealed
them to us) he has kept his promise, we fall to pitying Shakespeare, the
bestower of immortality. In the great temple raised by his genius to his
own undying glory, one narrow door opens into a secret, silent crypt,
where his image, blurred and indistinct, is hardly discernible through
the gloomy atmosphere, heavy and dim as if with sighs and tears. Here is
no clew, no issue, and we return to the shrine filled with light and
life and warmth and melody; with knowledge and love of man, and worship
of God and nature. There is our benefactor and friend, simplest and most
lovable, though most wonderful of his kind; other image of him than that
bright one may the world never know!
These names were those of "promising young men," our friends and
companions, whose various remarkable abilities we learned to estimate
through my brother's enthusiastic appreciation of them. How bright has
been, in many instances, the full performance of that early promise,
England has gratefully acknowledged; they have been among the jewels of
their time, and some of their names will be famous and blessed for
generations to come. It is not for me to praise those whom all
English-speaking folk delight to honor; but in thinking of that bright
band of very noble young spirits, of my brother's love and admiration
for them, of their affection for him, of our pleasant intercourse in
those far-off early days,--in spite of the faithful, life-long regard
which still subsists between myself and the few survivors of that goodly
company, my heart sinks with a heavy sense of loss, and the world from
which so much light has departed seems dark and dismal enough.
CHAPTER XI.
Alfred Tennyson had only just gathered his earliest laurels. My brother
John gave me the first copy of his poems I ever possessed, with a
prophecy of his future fame and excellence written on the fly-leaf of
it. I have never ceased to exult in my possession of that copy of the
first edition of those poems, which became the songs of our every day
and every hour, almost; we delighted in them and knew them by heart, and
read and said them over and over again incessantly; they were our
pictures, our music, and infinite was the scorn and indignation with
which we received the slightest word of adverse criticism upon them. I
remember Mrs. Milman, one evening at my father's house, challenging me
laughingly about my enthusiasm for Tennyson, and asking me if I had read
a certain severely caustic and condemnatory article in the _Quarterly_
upon his poems. "Have you read it?" said she; "it is so amusing! Shall I
send it to you?" "No, thank you," said I; "have you read the poems, may
I ask?" "I cannot say that I have," said she, laughing. "Oh, then," said
I (not laughing), "perhaps it would be better that I should send you
those?"
The early death of Arthur Hallam, and the imperishable monument of love
raised by Tennyson's genius to his memory, have tended to give him a
pre-eminence among the companions of his youth which I do not think his
abilities would have won for him had he lived; though they were
undoubtedly of a high order. There was a gentleness and purity almost
virginal in his voice, manner, and countenance; and the upper part of
his face, his forehead and eyes (perhaps in readiness for his early
translation), wore the angelic radiance that they still must wear in
heaven. Some time or other, at some rare moments of the divine spirit's
supremacy in our souls, we all put on the heavenly face that will be
ours hereafter, and for a brief lightning space our friends behold us as
we shall look when this mortal has put on immortality. On Arthur
Hallam's brow and eyes this heavenly light, so fugitive on other human
faces, rested habitually, as if he was thinking and seeing in heaven.
Of all those very remarkable young men, John Sterling was by far the
most brilliant and striking in his conversation, and the one of whose
future eminence we should all of us have augured most confidently. But
though his life was cut off prematurely, it was sufficiently prolonged
to disprove this estimate of his powers. The extreme vividness of his
look, manner, and speech gave a wonderful impression of latent vitality
and power; perhaps some of this lambent, flashing brightness may have
been but the result of the morbid physical conditions of his existence,
like the flush on his cheek and the fire in his eye; the over stimulated
and excited intellectual activity, the offspring of disease, mistaken by
us for morning instead of sunset splendor, promise of future light and
heat instead of prognostication of approaching darkness and decay. It
certainly has always struck me as singular that Sterling, who in his
life accomplished so little and left so little of the work by which men
are generally pronounced to be gifted with exceptional ability, should
have been the subject of two such interesting biographies as those
written of him by Julius Hare and Carlyle. I think he must have been one
of those persons in whom genius makes itself felt and acknowledged
chiefly through the medium of personal intercourse; a not infrequent
thing, I think, with women, and perhaps men, wanting the full vigor of
normal health. I suppose it is some failure not so much in the power
possessed as in the power of producing it in a less evanescent form than
that of spoken words, and the looks that with such organizations are
more than the words themselves. Sterling's genius was his _Wesen_,
himself, and he could detach no portion of it that retained anything
like the power and beauty one would have expected. After all, the world
has twice been moved (once intellectually and once morally), as never
before or since, by those whose spoken words, gathered up by others, are
all that remain of them. Personal influence is the strongest and the
most subtle of powers, and Sterling impressed all who knew him as a man
of undoubted genius; those who never knew him will perhaps always wonder
why.
My life was rather sad at this time: my brother's failure at college was
a source of disappointment and distress to my parents; and I, who
admired him extremely, and believed in him implicitly, was grieved at
his miscarriage and his absence from England; while the darkening
prospects of the theater threw a gloom over us all. My hitherto frequent
interchange of letters with my dear friend H---- S---- had become
interrupted and almost suspended by the prolonged and dangerous illness
of her brother; and I was thrown almost entirely upon myself, and was
finding my life monotonously dreary, when events occurred that changed
its whole tenor almost suddenly, and determined my future career with
less of deliberation than would probably have satisfied either my
parents or myself under less stringent circumstances.
I have often admired the consummate good sense with which, confronting a
whole array of authorities, historical, artistical, �sthetical, my
mother stoutly maintained in their despite that nothing was to be
adopted on the stage that was in itself ugly, ungraceful, or even
curiously antiquated and singular, however correct it might be with
reference to the particular period, or even to authoritative portraits
of individual characters of the play. The passions, sentiments, actions,
and sufferings of human beings, she argued, were the main concern of a
fine drama, not the clothes they wore. I think she even preferred an
unobtrusive indifference to a pedantic accuracy, which, she said, few
people appreciated, and which, if anything, rather took the attention
from the acting than added to its effect, when it was really fine.
She always said, when pictures and engravings were consulted, "Remember,
this presents but one view of the person, and does not change its
position: how will this dress look when it walks, runs, rushes, kneels,
sits down, falls, and turns its back?" I think an edge was added to my
mother's keen, rational, and highly artistic sense of this matter of
costume because it was the special hobby of her "favorite aversion," Mr.
E----, who had studied with great zeal and industry antiquarian
questions connected with the subject of stage representations, and was
perpetually suggesting to my father improvements on the old ignorant
careless system which prevailed under former managements.
It is very true that, as she said, Garrick acted Macbeth in a full court
suit of scarlet,--knee-breeches, powdered wig, pigtail, and all; and
Mrs. Siddons acted the Grecian Daughter in piles of powdered curls, with
a forest of feathers on the top of them, high-heeled shoes, and a
portentous hoop; and both made the audience believe that they looked
just as they should do. But for all that, actors and actresses who were
neither Garrick nor Mrs. Siddons were not less like the parts they
represented by being at least dressed as they should be; and the fine
accuracy of the Shakespearean revivals of Mr. Macready and Charles Kean
was in itself a great enjoyment; nobody was ever told to _omit_ the
tithing of mint and cummin, though other matters were more important;
and Kean's Othello would have been the grand performance it was, even
with the advantage of Mr. Fechter's clever and picturesque "getting up"
of the play, as a frame to it; as Mademoiselle Rachel's wonderful
fainting exclamation of "Oh, mon cher Curiace!" lost none of its
poignant pathos, though she knew how every fold of her drapery fell and
rested on the chair on which she sank in apparent unconsciousness.
Criticising a portrait of herself in that scene, she said to the
painter, "Ma robe ne fait pas ce pli la; elle fait, au contraire,
celui-ci." The artist, inclined to defend his picture, asked her how,
while she was lying with her eyes shut and feigning utter insensibility,
she could possibly tell anything about the plaits of her dress.
"Allez-y-voir," replied Rachel; and the next time she played Camille,
the artist was able to convince himself by more careful observation that
she was right, and that there was probably no moment of the piece at
which this consummate artist was not aware of the effect produced by
every line and fold of the exquisite costume, of which she had studied
and prepared every detail as carefully as the wonderful movements of her
graceful limbs, the intonations of her awful voice, and the changing
expressions of her terribly beautiful countenance.
My frame of mind under the preparations that were going forward for my
_d�but_ appears to me now curious enough. Though I had found out that I
could act, and had acted with a sort of frenzy of passion and entire
self-forgetfulness the first time I ever uttered the wonderful
conception I had undertaken to represent, my going on the stage was
absolutely an act of duty and conformity to the will of my parents,
strengthened by my own conviction that I was bound to help them by every
means in my power. The theatrical profession was, however, utterly
distasteful to me, though _acting_ itself, that is to say, dramatic
personation, was not; and every detail of my future vocation, from the
preparations behind the scenes to the representations before the
curtain, was more or less repugnant to me. Nor did custom ever render
this aversion less; and liking my work so little, and being so devoid of
enthusiasm, respect, or love for it, it is wonderful to me that I ever
achieved _any_ success in it at all. The dramatic element inherent in my
organization must have been very powerful, to have enabled me without
either study of or love for my profession to do anything worth anything
in it.
But this is the reason why, with an unusual gift and many unusual
advantages for it, I did really so little; why my performances were
always uneven in themselves and perfectly unequal with each other, never
complete as a whole, however striking in occasional parts, and never at
the same level two nights together; depending for their effect upon the
state of my nerves and spirits, instead of being the result of
deliberate thought and consideration,--study, in short, carefully and
conscientiously applied to my work; the permanent element which
preserves the artist, however inevitably he must feel the influence of
moods of mind and body, from ever being at their mercy.
Your letter grieved me very much, but it did not surprise me; of
your brother's serious illness I had heard from my cousin, Horace
Twiss. But is there indeed cause for the terrible anxiety you
express? I know how impossible it is to argue with the
apprehensions of affection, and should have forborne this letter
altogether, but that I felt very deeply your kindness in writing to
me at such a time, and that I would fain assure you of my
heart-felt sympathy, however unavailing it may be. To you who have
a steadfast anchor for your hopes, I ought not, perhaps, to say,
"Do not despond." Yet, dearest H----, do not despond: is there
_any_ occasion when despair is justified? I know how lightly all
soothing counsel must be held, in a case of such sorrow as yours,
but among fellow-Christians such words still have some
significance; for the most unworthy of that holy profession may
point unfalteringly to the only consolations adequate to the need
of those far above them in every endowment of mind and heart and
religious attainment. Dear H----, I hardly know how to tell you how
much I feel for you, how sincerely I hope your fears may prove
groundless, and how earnestly I pray that, should they prove
prophetic, you may be enabled to bear the affliction, to meet which
I doubt not strength will be given you. This is all I dare say;
those who love you best will hardly venture to say more. To put
away entirely the idea of an evil which one may be called upon at
any moment to encounter would hardly be wise, even if it were
possible, in this world where every happiness one enjoys is but a
loan, the repayment of which may be exacted at the very moment,
perhaps, when we are forgetting in its possession the precarious
tenure by which alone it is ours.
My dear father and mother have both been very unwell; the former is
a little recovered, but the latter is still in a sad state of
bodily suffering and mental anxiety. Our two boys are well and
happy, and I am very well and not otherwise than happy. I regret to
say Mrs. Henry Siddons will leave London in a very short time; this
is a great loss to me. I owe more to her than I can ever repay; for
though abundant pains had been bestowed upon me previously to my
going to her, it was she who caused to spring whatever scattered
seeds of good were in me, which almost seemed as if they had been
cast into the soil in vain.
My father not acting Romeo with me deprived me of the most poetical and
graceful stage lover of his day; but the public, who had long been
familiar with his rendering of the part of Romeo, gained as much as I
lost, by his taking that of Mercutio, which has never since been so
admirably represented, and I dare affirm will never be given more
perfectly. The graceful ease, and airy sparkling brilliancy of his
delivery of the witty fancies of that merry gentleman, the gallant
defiance of his bearing toward the enemies of his house, and his
heroically pathetic and humorous death-scene, were beyond description
charming. He was one of the best Romeos, and incomparably _the_ best
Mercutio, that ever trod the English stage.
My mother had a great admiration and personal regard for Lady Becher,
and told me an anecdote of her early life which transmitted those
feelings of hers to me. Lord F----, eldest son of the Earl of E----, a
personally and mentally attractive young man, fell desperately in love
with Miss O'Neill, who was (what the popular theatrical heroine of the
day always is) the realization of their ideal to the youth, male and
female, of her time, the stage star of her contemporaries. Lord F----'s
family had nothing to say against the character, conduct, or personal
endowments of the beautiful, actress who had enchanted, to such serious
purpose as marriage, the heir of their house; but much, reasonably and
rightly enough, against marriages disproportionate to such a degree as
that, and the objectionable nature of the young woman's peculiar
circumstances and public calling. Both Miss O'Neill, however, and Lord
F---- were enough in earnest in their mutual regard to accept the test
of a year's separation and suspension of all intercourse. She remained
to utter herself in Juliet to the English public, and her lover went and
travelled abroad, both believing in themselves and each other. No
letters or communication passed between them; but toward the end of
their year of probation vague rumors came flying to England of the life
of dissipation led by the young man, and of the unworthy companions with
whom he entertained the most intimate relations. After this came more
explicit tales of positive entanglement with one particular person, and
reports of an entire devotion to one object quite incompatible with the
constancy professed and promised to his English mistress.
Probably aware that every effort would, till the last, be made by Lord
F----'s family to detach them from each other, bound by her promise to
hold no intercourse with him, but determined to take the verdict of her
fate from no one but himself, Miss O'Neill obtained a brief leave of
absence from her theatrical duties, went with her brother and sister to
Calais, whence she travelled alone to Paris (poor, fair Juliet! when I
think of her, not as I ever knew her, but such as I know she must then
have been, no more pathetic image presents itself to my mind), and took
effectual measures to ascertain beyond all shadow of doubt the bitter
truth of the evil reports of her fickle lover's mode of life. His
devotion to one lady, the more respectable form of infidelity which must
inevitably have canceled their contract of love, was not indeed true,
and probably the story had been fabricated because the mere general
accusation of profligacy might easily have been turned into an appeal to
her mercy, as the result of reckless despondency and of his utter
separation from her; and a woman in her circumstances might not have
been hard to find who would have persuaded herself that she might
overlook "all that," reclaim her lover, and be an Earl's wife. Miss
O'Neill rejoined her family at Calais, wrote to Lord F----'s father, the
Earl of E----, her final and irrevocable rejection of his son's suit,
fell ill of love and sorrow, and lay for some space between life and
death for the sake of her unworthy lover; rallied bravely, recovered,
resumed her work,--her sway over thousands of human hearts,--and, after
lapse of healing and forgiving and forgetting time, married Sir William
Wrixon Becher.
It was not an easy matter to find a Romeo for me, and in the emergency
my father and mother even thought of my brother Henry's trying the part.
He was in the first bloom of youth, and really might be called
beautiful; and certainly, a few years later, might have been the very
ideal of a Romeo. But he looked too young for the part, as indeed he
was, being three years my junior. The overwhelming objection, however,
was his own insuperable dislike to the idea of acting, and his ludicrous
incapacity for assuming the faintest appearance of any sentiment.
However, he learned the words, and never shall I forget the explosion of
laughter which shook my father, my mother, and myself, when, after
hearing him recite the balcony scene with the most indescribable mixture
of shy terror and nervous convulsions of suppressed giggling, my father
threw down the book, and Henry gave vent to his feelings by clapping his
elbows against his sides and bursting into a series of triumphant
cock-crows--an expression of mental relief so ludicrously in contrast
with his sweet, sentimental face, and the part he had just been
pretending to assume, that I thought we never should have recovered from
the fits it sent us into. We were literally all crying with laughter,
and a more farcical scene cannot be imagined. This, of course, ended all
idea of that young chanticleer being my Romeo; and yet the young rascal
was, or fancied he was, over head and ears in love at this very time,
and an exquisite sketch Hayter had just made of him might with the
utmost propriety have been sent to the exhibition with no other title
than "Portrait of a Lover."
Mr. Abbot was in truth not a bad actor, though a perfectly uninteresting
one in tragedy; he had a good figure, face, and voice, the carriage and
appearance of a well-bred person, and, in what is called genteel comedy,
precisely the air and manner which it is most difficult to assume, that
of a gentleman. He had been in the army, and had left it for the stage,
where his performances were always respectable, though seldom anything
more. Wanting passion and expression in tragedy, he naturally resorted
to vehemence to supply their place, and was exaggerated and violent from
the absence of all dramatic feeling and imagination. Moreover, in
moments of powerful emotion he was apt to become unsteady on his legs,
and always filled me with terror lest in some of his headlong runs and
rushes about the stage he should lose his balance and fall; as indeed he
once did, to my unspeakable distress, in the play of "The Grecian
Daughter," in which he enacted my husband, Phocion, and flying to
embrace me, after a period of painful and eventful separation, he
completely overbalanced himself, and swinging round with me in his arms,
we both came to the ground together. "Oh, Mr. Abbot!" was all I could
ejaculate; he, poor man, literally pale green with dismay, picked me up
in profound silence, and the audience kindly covered our confusion, and
comforted us by vehement applause, not, indeed, unmixed with laughter.
But my friends and admirers were none the more his after that exploit;
and I remained in mortal dread of his stage embraces for ever after,
steadying myself carefully on my feet, and bracing my whole figure to
"stand fast," whenever he made the smallest affectionate approach toward
me. It is not often that such a piece of awkwardness as this is
perpetrated on the stage, but dramatic heroines are nevertheless liable
to sundry disagreeable difficulties of a very unromantic nature. If a
gentleman in a ball-room places his hand round a lady's waist to waltz
with her, she can, without any shock to the "situation," beg him to
release the end spray of her flowery garland, or the floating ribbons of
her head-dress, which he may have imprisoned; but in the middle of a
scene of tragedy grief or horror, of the unreality of which, by dint of
the effort of your imagination, you are no longer conscious, to be
obliged to say, in your distraction, to your distracted partner in woe,
"Please lift your arm from my waist, you are pulling my head down
backwards," is a distraction, too, of its kind.
The only occasion on which I ever acted Juliet to a Romeo who looked the
part was one when Miss Ellen Tree sustained it. The acting of Romeo, or
any other man's part by a woman (in spite of Mrs. Siddons's Hamlet), is,
in my judgment, contrary to every artistic and perhaps natural
propriety, but I cannot deny that the stature "more than common tall,"
and the beautiful face, of which the fine features were too marked in
their classical regularity to look feeble or even effeminate, of my fair
female lover made her physically an appropriate representative of Romeo.
Miss Ellen Tree looked beautiful and not unmanly in the part; she was
broad-shouldered as well as tall, and her long limbs had the fine
proportions of the huntress Diana; altogether, she made a very "pretty
fellow," as the saying was formerly, as all who saw her in her graceful
performance of Talfourd's "Ion" will testify; but assumption of that
character, which in its ideal classical purity is almost without sex,
was less open to objection than that of the fighting young Veronese
noble of the fourteenth century. She fenced very well, however, and
acquitted herself quite manfully in her duel with Tybalt; the only hitch
in the usual "business" of the part was between herself and me, and I do
not imagine the public, for one night, were much aggrieved by the
omission of the usual clap-trap performance (part of Garrick's
interpolation, which indeed belongs to the original story, but which
Shakespeare's true poet's sense had discarded) of Romeo's plucking
Juliet up from her bier and rushing with her, still stiff and motionless
in her death-trance, down to the foot-lights. This feat Miss Tree
insisted upon attempting with me, and I as stoutly resisted all her
entreaties to let her do so. I was a very slender-looking girl, but very
heavy for all that. (A friend of mine, on my first voyage to America,
lifting me from a small height, set me down upon the deck, exclaiming,
"Oh, you solid little lady!" and my cousin, John Mason, the first time
he acted Romeo with me, though a very powerful, muscular young man,
whispered to me as he carried my corpse down the stage with a fine
semblance of frenzy, "Jove, Fanny, you are a lift!") Finding that all
argument and remonstrance was unavailing, and that Miss Tree, though by
no means other than a good friend and fellow-worker of mine, was bent
upon performing this gymnastic feat, I said at last, "If you attempt to
lift or carry me down the stage, I will kick and scream till you set me
down," which ended the controversy. I do not know whether she believed
me, but she did not venture upon the experiment.
I cannot help thinking that, had Mr. Greville lived, much of the
voluminous record he kept of persons and events would have been withheld
from publication. He told me, not long before his death, that he had no
recollection whatever of the contents of the earlier volumes of his MS.
journal which he had lent me to read; and it is infinitely to be
regretted, if he did not look over them before they were published, that
the discretion he exercised (or delegated) in the omission of certain
passages was not allowed to prevail to the exclusion of others. Such
partial omissions would not indeed alter the whole tone and character of
the book, but might have mitigated the shock of painful surprise with
which it was received by the society he described, and by no one more
than some of those who had been on terms of the friendliest intimacy
with him and who had repeatedly heard him assert that his journal would
never be published in the lifetime of any one mentioned in it.
I consider that I was quite justified in using even this naughty child's
threat to prevent Miss Tree from doing what might very well have ended
in some dangerous and ludicrous accident; nor did I feel at all guilty
toward her of the species of malice prepense which Malibran exhibited
toward Sontag, when they sang in the opera of "Romeo and Juliet," on the
first occasion of their appearing together during their brilliant public
career in England. Malibran's mischievousness partook of the force and
versatility of her extraordinary genius, and having tormented poor
Mademoiselle Sontag with every inconceivable freak and caprice during
the whole rehearsal of the opera, at length, when requested by her to
say in what part of the stage she intended to fall in the last scene,
she, Malibran, replied that she "really didn't know," that she "really
couldn't tell;" sometimes she "died in one place, sometimes in another,
just as it happened, or the humor took her at the moment." As Sontag was
bound to expire in loving proximity to her, and was, I take it, much
less liable to spontaneous inspiration than her fiery rival, this was by
no means satisfactory. She had nothing like the original genius of the
other woman, but was nevertheless a more perfect artist. Wanting weight
and power and passion for such parts as Norma, Medea, Semiramide, etc.,
she was perfect in the tenderer and more pathetic parts of Amina, Lucia
di Lammermoor, Linda di Chamouni; exquisite in the Rosina and Carolina
of the "Barbiere" and "Matrimonio Segreto;" and, in my opinion, quite
unrivaled in her Countess, in the "Nozze," and, indeed, in all rendering
of Mozart's music, to whose peculiar and pre-eminent genius hers seemed
to me in some degree allied, and of whose works she was the only
interpreter I ever heard, gifted alike with the profound German
understanding of music and the enchanting Italian power of rendering it.
Her mode of uttering sound, of putting forth her voice (the test which
all but Italians, or most carefully Italian-trained singers, fail in),
was as purely unteutonic as possible. She was one of the most perfect
singers I ever heard, and suggests to my memory the quaint praise of the
gypsy vocal performance in the ballad of "Johnny Faa"--
She was the first Rosina I ever heard who introduced into the scene of
the music-lesson "Rhodes Air," with the famous violin variations, which
she performed by way of a _vocalise_, to the utter amazement of her
noble music-master, I should think, as well as her audience.
Mademoiselle Nilsson is the only prima donna since her day who has at
all reminded me of Sontag, who was lovely to look at, delightful to
listen to, good, amiable, and charming, and, compared with Malibran,
like the evening star to a comet.
Madame Malibran was always an object of the greatest interest to me, not
only on account of her extraordinary genius, and great and various
gifts, but because of the many details I heard of her youth from M. de
la Forest, the French consul in New York, who knew her as Marie Garcia,
a wild and wayward but most wonderful girl, under her father's
tyrannical and harsh rule during the time they spent in the United
States. He said that there was not a piece of furniture in their
apartment that had not been thrown by the father at the daughter's head,
in the course of the moral and artistic training he bestowed upon her:
it is perhaps wonderful that success in either direction should have
been the result of such a system; but, upon the whole, the singer seems
to have profited more than the woman from it, as might have been
expected. Garcia was an incomparable artist, actor, and singer (no such
Don Giovanni has ever been heard or seen since), and bestowed upon all
his children the finest musical education that ever made great natural
gifts available to the utmost to their possessors. I suppose it was from
him, too, that Marie derived with her Spanish blood the vehement,
uncontrollable nature of which M. de la Forest told me he had witnessed
such extraordinary exhibitions in her girlhood. He said she would fly
into passions of rage, in which she would set her teeth in the sleeve of
her silk gown, and tear and rend great pieces out of the thick texture
as if it were muslin; a test of the strength of those beautiful teeth,
as well as of the fury of her passion. She then would fall rigid on the
floor, without motion, breath, pulse, or color, though not fainting, in
a sort of catalepsy of rage.
Her marriage with the old French merchant Malibran was speedily followed
by their separation; he went to France, leaving his divine devil of a
wife in New York, and during his absence she used to write letters to
him, which she frequently showed to M. de la Forest, who was her
intimate friend and adviser, and took a paternal interest in all her
affairs. These epistles often expressed so much cordial kindness and
warmth of feeling toward her husband, that M. de la Forest, who knew her
separation from him to have been entirely her own act and choice, and
any decent agreement and harmonious life between them absolutely
impossible, was completely puzzled by such professions toward a man with
whom she was determined never to live, and occasionally said to her,
"What do you mean? Do you wish your husband to come here to you? or do
you contemplate going to him? In short, what is your intention in
writing with all this affection to a man from whom you have separated
yourself?" Upon this view of her epistle, which did not appear to have
struck her, M. de la Forest said, she would (instead of rewriting it)
tack on to it, with the most ludicrous inconsistency, a sort of
revocatory codicil, in the shape of a postscript, expressing her decided
desire that her husband should remain where he was, and her own explicit
determination never again to enter into any more intimate relations with
him than were compatible with a correspondence from opposite sides of
the Atlantic, whatever personal regard or affection for him her letter
might appear to express to the contrary notwithstanding.
To my great regret I only saw her act once, though I heard her sing at
concerts and in private repeatedly. My only personal encounter with her
took place in a curious fashion. My father and myself were acting at
Manchester, and had just finished performing the parts of Mr. and Mrs.
Beverley, one night, in "The Gamester." On our return from the theater,
as I was slowly and in considerable exhaustion following my father up
the hotel stairs, as we reached the landing by our sitting-room, a door
immediately opposite to it flew open, and a lady dressed like
Tilburina's Confidante, all in white muslin, rushed out of it, and fell
upon my father's breast, sobbing out hysterically, "Oh, Mr. Kembel, my
deare, deare Mr. Kembel!" This was Madame Malibran, under the effect of
my father's performance of the Gamester, which she had just witnessed.
"Come, come," quoth my father (who was old enough to have been hers, and
knew her very well), patting her consolingly on the back, "Come now, my
dear Madame Malibran, compose yourself; don't now, Marie, don't, my dear
child!" all which was taking place on the public staircase, while I
looked on in wide-eyed amazement behind. Madame Malibran, having
suffered herself to be led into our room, gradually composed herself,
ate her supper with us, expressed herself with much kind enthusiasm
about my performance, and gave me a word of advice as to not losing any
of my height (of which I had none to spare) by stooping, saying very
amiably that, being at a disadvantage as to her own stature, she had
never wasted a quarter of an inch of it. This little reflection upon her
own proportions must have been meant as a panacea to my vanity for her
criticism of my deportment. My person was indeed of the shortest; but
she had the figure of a nymph, and was rather above than below middle
height. There was in other respects some likeness between us; she was
certainly not really handsome, but her eyes were magnificent, and her
whole countenance was very striking.
The first time I ever saw her sister, Madame Viardot, she was sitting
with mine, who introduced me to her; Pauline Viardot continued talking,
now and then, however, stopping to look fixedly at me, and at last
exclaimed, "Mais comme elle ressemble � ma Marie!" and one evening at a
private concert in London, having arrived late, I remained standing by
the folding-doors of the drawing-room, while Lablache finished a song
which he had begun before I came in, at the end of which he came up to
me and said, "You cannot think how you frightened me, when first I saw
you standing in that doorway; you looked so absolutely like Malibran,
que je ne savais en v�rit� pas ce que c'�tait." Malibran's appearance
was a memorable event in the whole musical world of Europe, throughout
which her progress from capital to capital was one uninterrupted
triumph; the enthusiasm, as is general in such cases, growing with its
further and wider spread, so that at Venice she was allowed, in spite of
old-established law and custom, to go about in a gold and crimson
gondola, as fine as the Bucentaur itself, instead of the floating
hearses that haunt the sea-paved thoroughfares, and that did not please
her gay and magnificent taste.
Her _d�but_ in England was an absolute conquest of the nation; and when
it was shocked by the news of her untimely death, hundreds of those
unsympathetic, un�sthetic, unenthusiastic English people put mourning on
for the wonderfully gifted young woman, snatched away in the midst of
her brilliant career. Madame Malibran composed some charming songs, but
her great reputation derives little of its luster from them,--that great
reputation already a mere tradition.
"As the lamp guards the flame, so the bare, marble halls
Of the Parthenon keep, in their desolate space,
The memory of Phidias enshrined in their walls.
And Praxiteles' child, the young Venus, yet calls
From the altar, where, smiling, she still holds her place,
The centuries conquered to worship her grace.
"Thus from age after age, while new life they receive,
To rest at God's feet the old glories are gone;
And the accents of genius their echoes still weave
With the great human voice, till their speech is but one.
And of thee, dead but yesterday, all thy fame leaves
But a cross in the dim chapel's darkness, alone.
Those Garcia sisters were among the most remarkable people of their day,
not only for their peculiar high artistic gifts, their admirable musical
and dramatic powers, but for the vivid originality of their genius and
great general cultivation. Malibran danced almost as well as she sang,
and once took a principal part in a ballet. She drew and painted well,
as did her sister Pauline Viardot, whose spirited caricatures of her
friends, and herself were admirable specimens both of likenesses and of
humorous talent in delineating them. Both sisters conversed brilliantly,
speaking fluently four languages, and executed the music of different
nations and composers with a perception of the peculiar character of
each that was extraordinary. They were mistresses of all the different
schools of religious, dramatic, and national compositions, and Gluck,
Jomelli, Pergolesi, Bach, Handel, Haydn, Mozart, Rossini, Bellini,
Scotch and Irish melodies, Neapolitan canzonette, and the popular airs
of their own country, were all rendered by them with equal mastery.
are full enough of bitter-sweet despair for the last chords of that
ineffable, passionate strain--the swoon of sorrow ending that brief,
palpitating ecstasy, the proper, dirge-like close to that triumphant
hymn of love and youth and beauty. All the frantic rushing and tortured
writhing and uproar of noisy anguish of the usual stage ending seemed
utter desecration to me; but Garrick was an actor, the first of actors,
and his death-scene of the lovers and ending of the play is much more
theatrically effective than Shakespeare's.
CHAPTER XII.
I had been sitting to him for some time previously for a pencil sketch,
which he gave my mother; it was his last work, and certainly the most
beautiful of his drawings. He had appointed a day for beginning a
full-length, life-size portrait of me as Juliet, and we had seen him
only a week before his death, and, in the interval, received a note from
him, merely saying he was rather indisposed. His death, which was quite
unexpected, created a very great public sensation, and there was
something sufficiently mysterious about its circumstances to give rise
to a report that he had committed suicide.
The shock of this event was terrible to me, although I have sometimes
since thought it was fortunate for me rather than otherwise. Sir Thomas
Lawrence's enthusiastically expressed admiration for me, his constant
kindness, his sympathy in my success, and the warm interest he took in
everything that concerned me, might only have inspired me with a
grateful sense of his condescension and goodness. But I was a very
romantic girl, with a most excitable imagination, and such was to me the
melancholy charm of Lawrence's countenance, the elegant distinction of
his person, and exquisite refined gentleness of his voice and manner,
that a very dangerous fascination was added to my sense of gratitude for
all his personal kindness to me, and my admiration for his genius; and I
think it not at all unlikely that, had our intercourse continued, and
had I sat to him for the projected portrait of Juliet, in spite of the
forty years' difference in our ages, and my knowledge of his disastrous
relations with my cousins, I should have become in love with him myself,
and been the fourth member of our family whose life he would have
disturbed and embittered. His sentimentality was of a peculiar
mischievous order, as it not only induced women to fall in love with
him, but enabled him to persuade himself that he was in love with them,
and apparently with more than one at a time.
While I was sitting to him for the beautiful sketch he gave my mother,
one or two little incidents occurred that illustrated curiously enough
this superficial pseudo-sensibility of his. On one occasion, when he
spent the evening with us, my mother had made me sing for him; and the
next day, after my sitting, he said in a strange, hesitating, broken
manner, as if struggling to control some strong emotion, "I have a very
great favor to beg of you; the next time I have the honor and pleasure
of spending the evening with you, will you, if Mrs. Kemble does not
disapprove of it, sing this song for me?" He put a piece of music into
my hand, and immediately left us without another word. On our way home
in the carriage, I unrolled the song, the title of which was, "These few
pale Autumn Flowers." "Ha!" said my mother, with, I thought, rather a
peculiar expression, as I read the words; but she added no further
comment. Both words and music were plaintive and pathetic, and had an
original stamp in the melancholy they expressed.
The next time Lawrence spent the evening with us I sang the song for
him. While I did so, he stood by the piano in a state of profound
abstraction, from which he recovered himself, as if coming back from
very far away, and with an expression of acute pain on his countenance,
he thanked me repeatedly for what he called the great favor I had done
him.
At the end of my next sitting, when my mother and myself had risen to
take leave of him, he said, "No, don't go yet,--stay a moment,--I want
to show you something--if I can;" and he moved restlessly about, taking
up and putting down his chalks and pencils, and standing, and sitting
down again, as if unable to make up his mind to do what he wished. At
length he went abruptly to an easel, and, removing from it a canvas with
a few slight sketches on it, he discovered behind it the profile
portrait of a lady in a white dress folded simply across her bosom, and
showing her beautiful neck and shoulders. Her head was dressed with a
sort of sibylline turban, and she supported it upon a most lovely hand
and arm, her elbow resting on a large book, toward which she bent, and
on the pages of which her eyes were fixed, the exquisite eyelid and
lashes hiding the eyes. "Oh, how beautiful! oh, who is it!" exclaimed I.
"A--a lady," stammered Lawrence, turning white and red, "toward
whom--for whom--I entertained the profoundest regard." Thereupon he fled
out of the room. "It is the portrait of Mrs. W----," said my mother;
"she is now dead; she was an exceedingly beautiful and accomplished
woman, the authoress of the words and music of the song Sir Thomas
Lawrence asked you to learn for him."
The great painter's devotion to this lovely person had been matter of
notoriety in the London world. Strangely enough, but a very short time
ago I discovered that she was the kinswoman of my friend Miss Cobb's
mother, of whom Miss Cobb possessed a miniature, in which the fashion of
dress and style of head-dress were the same as those in the picture I
saw, and in which I also traced some resemblance to the beautiful face
which made so great an impression on me. Not long after this Mrs.
Siddons, dining with us one day, asked my mother how the sketch Lawrence
was making of me was getting on. After my mother's reply, my aunt
remained silent for some time, and then, laying her hand on my father's
arm, said, "Charles, when I die, I wish to be carried to my grave by you
and Lawrence." Lawrence reached his grave while she was yet tottering on
the brink of hers.
One day Lawrence took us, from the room where I generally sat to him,
into a long gallery where were a number of his pictures, and, leading me
by the hand, desired me not to raise my eyes till he told me. On the
word of command I looked up, and found myself standing close to and
immediately underneath, as it were, a colossal figure of Satan. The
sudden shock of finding myself in such proximity to this terrible image
made me burst into nervous tears. Lawrence was greatly distressed at the
result of his experiment, which had been simply to obtain a verdict from
my unprepared impression of the power of his picture. A conversation we
had been having upon the subject of Milton and the character of Satan
had made him think of showing this picture to me. I was too much
agitated to form any judgment of it, but I thought I perceived through
its fierce and tragical expression some trace of my uncle's face and
features, a sort of "more so" of the bitter pride and scornful
melancholy of the banished Roman in the Volscian Hall. Lawrence's
imagination was so filled with the poetical and dramatic suggestions
which he derived from the Kemble brother and sister, that I thought a
likeness of them lurked in this portrait of the Prince of Darkness; and
perhaps he could scarcely have found a better model for his archfiend
than my uncle, to whom his mother occasionally addressed the
characteristic reproof, "Sir, you are as proud as Lucifer!" (He and that
remarkable mother of his must really have been a good deal like
Coriolanus and Volumnia.) To console me for the fright he had given me,
Lawrence took me into his drawing-room--that beautiful apartment filled
with beautiful things, including his magnificent collection of original
drawings by the old masters, and precious gems of old and modern
art--the treasure-house of all the exquisite objects of beauty and
curiosity that he had gathered together during his whole life, and that
(with the exception of Raphael's and Michael Angelo's drawings, now in
the museum at Oxford) were so soon, at his most unexpected death, to be
scattered abroad and become, in separate, disjointed portions, the
property of a hundred different purchasers. Here, he said, he hoped
often to persuade my father and mother and myself to pass our unengaged
evenings with him; here he should like to make my brother John, of whom
I had spoken enthusiastically to him, free of his art collections; and,
adding that he would write to my mother to fix the day for my first
sitting for Juliet, he put into my hands a copy of the first edition of
Milton's "Paradise Lost." I never entered that room or his house, or saw
him again; he died about ten days after that.
Lawrence did not talk much while he took his sketch of me, and I
remember very little that passed between him and my mother but what was
purely personal. I recollect he told me that I had a double row of
eyelashes, which was an unusual peculiarity. He expressed the most
decided preference for satin over every other material for painting,
expatiating rapturously on the soft, rich folds and infinitely varied
lights and shadows which that texture afforded above all others. He has
dressed a great many of his female portraits in white satin. He also
once said that he had been haunted at one time with the desire to paint
a blush, that most enchanting "incident" in the expression of a woman's
face, but, after being driven nearly wild with the ineffectual endeavor,
had had to renounce it, never, of course, he said, achieving anything
but a _red face_. I remember the dreadful impression made upon me by a
story he told my mother of Lady J---- (George the Fourth's Lady J----),
who, standing before her drawing-room looking-glass, and unaware that he
was in the rooms, apostrophized her own reflection with this reflection:
"I swear it would be better to go to hell at once than live to grow old
and ugly."
The lovely head of Lady Nugent, the fine portrait I have mentioned of
Mrs. W----, the splendid one of Lady Hatherton, and the noble picture of
my grandmother, are among the best productions of Lawrence's pencil; and
several of his men's portraits are in a robust and simple style of art
worthy of the highest admiration. His likeness of Canning (which, by the
bye, might have passed for his own, so great was his resemblance to the
brilliant statesman) and the fine portrait he painted for Lord Aberdeen,
of my uncle John, are excellent specimens of his best work. He had a
remarkable gift of producing likenesses at once striking and favorable,
and of always seizing the finest expression of which a face was capable;
and none could ever complain that Lawrence had not done justice to the
very best look they ever wore. Lawrence's want of conscience with regard
to the pictures which he undertook and never finished, is difficult to
account for by any plausible explanation. The fact is notorious, that in
various instances, after receiving the price of a portrait, and
beginning it, he procrastinated, and delayed, and postponed the
completion, until, in more than one case, the blooming beauty sketched
upon his canvas had grown faded and wrinkled before the image of her
youthful loveliness had been completed.
All being in due preparation for my coming out, my rehearsals were the
only interruption to my usual habits of occupation, which I pursued very
steadily in spite of my impending trial. On the day of my first
appearance I had no rehearsal, for fear of over-fatigue, and spent my
morning as usual, in practicing the piano, walking in the inclosure of
St. James's Park opposite our house, and reading in "Blunt's Scripture
Characters" (a book in which I was then deeply interested) the chapters
relating to St. Peter and Jacob. I do not know whether the nervous
tension which I must have been enduring strengthened the impression made
upon me by what I read, but I remember being quite absorbed by it, which
I think was curious, because certainly such subjects of meditation were
hardly allied to the painful undertaking so immediately pressing upon
me. But I believe I felt imperatively the necessity of moderating my own
strong nervous emotion and excitement by the fulfillment of my
accustomed duties and pursuits, and above all by withdrawing my mind
into higher and serener regions of thought, as a respite and relief from
the pressure of my alternate apprehensions of failure and hopes of
success. I do not mean that it was at all a matter of deliberate
calculation or reflection, but rather an instinct of self-preservation,
which actuated me: a powerful instinct which has struggled and partially
prevailed throughout my whole life against the irregular and passionate
vehemence of my temperament, and which, in spite of a constant tendency
to violent excitement of mind and feeling, has made me a person of
unusually systematic pursuits and monotonous habits, and been a frequent
subject of astonishment, not unmixed with ridicule, to my friends, who
have not known as well as myself what wholesomeness there was in the
method of my madness. And I am persuaded that religion and reason alike
justify such a strong instinctive action in natures which derive a
constant moral support, like that of the unobserved but all-sustaining
pressure of the atmosphere, from the soothing and restraining influence
of systematic habits of monotonous regularity. Amid infinite anguish and
errors, existence may preserve a species of outward symmetry and harmony
from this strong band of minute observance keeping down and assisting
the mind to master elements of moral and mental discord and disorder,
for the due control of which the daily and hourly subjection to
recurring rules is an invaluable auxiliary to higher influences. The
external practice does not supply but powerfully supplements the
internal principle of self-control.
My mother, who had left the stage for upward of twenty years, determined
to return to it on the night of my first appearance, that I might have
the comfort and support of her being with me in my trial. We drove to
the theater very early, indeed while the late autumn sunlight yet
lingered in the sky; it shone into the carriage, upon me, and as I
screened my eyes from it, my mother said, "Heaven smiles on you, my
child." My poor mother went to her dressing-room to get herself ready,
and did not return to me for fear of increasing my agitation by her own.
My dear aunt Dall and my maid and the theater dresser performed my
toilet for me, and at length I was placed in a chair, with my satin
train carefully laid over the back of it; and there I sat, ready for
execution, with the palms of my hands pressed convulsively together, and
the tears I in vain endeavored to repress welling up into my eyes and
brimming slowly over, down my rouged cheeks--upon which my aunt, with a
smile full of pity, renewed the color as often as these heavy drops made
unsightly streaks in it. Once and again my father came to the door, and
I heard his anxious "How is she?" to which my aunt answered, sending him
away with words of comforting cheer. At last, "Miss Kemble called for
the stage, ma'am!" accompanied with a brisk tap at the door, started me
upright on my feet, and I was led round to the side scene opposite to
the one from which I saw my mother advance on the stage; and while the
uproar of her reception filled me with terror, dear old Mrs. Davenport,
my nurse, and dear Mr. Keely, her Peter, and half the _dramatis person�_
of the play (but not my father, who had retreated, quite unable to
endure the scene) stood round me as I lay, all but insensible, in my
aunt's arms. "Courage, courage, dear child! poor thing, poor thing!"
reiterated Mrs. Davenport. "Never mind 'em, Miss Kemble!" urged Keely,
in that irresistibly comical, nervous, lachrymose voice of his, which I
have never since heard without a thrill of anything but comical
association; "never mind 'em! don't think of 'em, any more than if they
were so many rows of cabbages!" "Nurse!" called my mother, and on
waddled Mrs. Davenport, and, turning back, called in her turn, "Juliet!"
My aunt gave me an impulse forward, and I ran straight across the stage,
stunned with the tremendous shout that greeted me, my eyes covered with
mist, and the green baize flooring of the stage feeling as if it rose up
against my feet; but I got hold of my mother, and stood like a terrified
creature at bay, confronting the huge theater full of gazing human
beings. I do not think a word I uttered during this scene could have
been audible; in the next, the ball-room, I began to forget myself; in
the following one, the balcony scene, I had done so, and, for aught I
knew, I was Juliet; the passion I was uttering sending hot waves of
blushes all over my neck and shoulders, while the poetry sounded like
music to me as I spoke it, with no consciousness of anything before me,
utterly transported into the imaginary existence of the play. After
this, I did not return into myself till all was over, and amid a
tumultuous storm of applause, congratulation, tears, embraces, and a
general joyous explosion of unutterable relief at the fortunate
termination of my attempt, we went home. And so my life was determined,
and I devoted myself to an avocation which I never liked or honored, and
about the very nature of which I have never been able to come to any
decided opinion. It is in vain that the undoubted specific gifts of
great actors and actresses suggest that all gifts are given for rightful
exercise, and not suppression; in vain that Shakespeare's plays urge
their imperative claim to the most perfect illustration they can receive
from histrionic interpretation: a _business_ which is incessant
excitement and factitious emotion seems to me unworthy of a man; a
business which is public exhibition, unworthy of a woman.
FANNY.
Mr. Mitchell, who from the first took charge of all my readings in
England, and was the very kindest, most considerate, and most courteous
of all managers, on one occasion, complaining bitterly to my sister of
the unreasonable objection I had to all laudatory advertisements of my
readings, said to her, with a voice and countenance of the most rueful
melancholy, and with the most appealing pathos, "Why, you know, ma'am,
it's really dreadful; you know, Mrs. Kemble won't even allow us to say
in the bills, _these celebrated readings_; and you know, ma'am, it's
really impossible to do with less; indeed it is! Why, ma'am, you know
even Morrison's pills are always advertised as _these celebrated
pills!_"--an illustration of the hardships of his case which my sister
repeated to me with infinite delight.
When I saw the shop-windows full of Lawrence's sketch of me, and knew
myself the subject of almost daily newspaper notices; when plates and
saucers were brought to me with small figures of me as Juliet and
Belvidera on them; and finally, when gentlemen showed me lovely
buff-colored neck-handkerchiefs which they had bought, and which had, as
I thought, pretty lilac-colored flowers all over them, which proved on
nearer inspection to be minute copies of Lawrence's head of me, I not
unnaturally, in the fullness of my inexperience, believed in my own
success.
I have since known more of the manufacture of public enthusiasm and
public triumphs, and, remembering to how many people it was a matter of
vital importance that the public interest should be kept alive in me,
and Covent Garden filled every night I played, I have become more
skeptical upon the subject.
My life now became settled in its new shape. I acted regularly three
times a week; I had no rehearsals, since "Romeo and Juliet" went on
during the whole season, and so my mornings were still my own. I always
dined in the middle of the day (and invariably on a mutton-chop, so that
I might have been a Harrow boy, for diet); I was taken by my aunt early
to the theater, and there in my dressing-room sat through the entire
play, when I was not on the stage, with some piece of tapestry or
needlework, with which, during the intervals of my tragic sorrows, I
busied my fingers; my thoughts being occupied with the events of my next
scene and the various effects it demanded. When I was called for the
stage, my aunt came with me, carrying my train, that it might not sweep
the dirty floor behind the scenes; and after spreading it out and
adjusting its folds carefully, as I went on, she remained at the side
scene till I came off again, then gathered it on her arm, and, folding a
shawl around me, escorted me back to my dressing-room and tapestry; and
so my theatrical evenings were passed. My parents would not allow me to
go into the green-room, where they thought my attention would be
distracted from my business, and where I might occasionally meet with
undesirable associates. My salary was fixed at thirty guineas a week,
and the Saturday after I came out I presented myself for the first and
last time at the treasury of the theater to receive it, and carried it,
clinking, with great triumph, to my mother, the first money I ever
earned.
CHAPTER XIII.
Among the persons whom I used to see behind the scenes were two who, for
different reasons, attracted my attention: one was the Earl of W----,
and the other the Rev. A.F. C----. I was presented to Lord and Lady
W---- in society, and visited them more than once at their place near
Manchester. But before I had made Lord W----'s acquaintance, he was an
object of wondering admiration to me, not altogether unmixed with a
slight sense of the ridiculous, only because it passed my comprehension
how any real, live man could be so exactly like the description of a
particular kind of man, in a particular kind of book. There was no fault
to find with the elegance of his appearance and his remarkable good
looks; he certainly was the beau ideal of a dandy,--with his slender,
perfectly dressed figure, his pale complexion, regular features, fine
eyes, and dark, glossy waves of hair, and the general aristocratic
distinction of his whole person,--and was so like the Earl of So-and-So,
in the fashionable novel of the day, that I always longed to ask him
what he did at the end of the "third volume," and "whether he or Sir
Reginald married Lady Geraldine." But why this exquisite _par
excellence_ should always have struck me as slightly absurd, I cannot
imagine. The Rev. A.F. C---- was the natural son of William IV. and Mrs.
Jordan, and vicar of Maple Durham; when first I came out, this young
gentleman attended every one of my performances, first in one of the
stage boxes and afterward in a still nearer position to the stage, one
of the orchestra reserved seats. Thence, one night, he disappeared, and,
to my surprise, I saw him standing at one of the side scenes during the
whole play. My mother remarking at supper his non-attendance in his
usual place, my father said that he had come to him at the beginning of
the play, and asked, for his mother's sake, to be allowed occasionally
to present himself behind the scenes. My father said this reference to
Mrs. Jordan had induced him to grant the request so put, though he did
not think the back of the scenes a very proper haunt for a gentleman of
his cloth. There, however, Mr. F. C---- came, and evening after evening
I saw his light kid gloves waving and gesticulating about, following in
a sort of sympathetic dumb show the gradual development of my distress,
to the end of the play. My father, at his request, presented him to me,
but as I never remained behind the scenes or went into the green-room,
and as he could not very well follow me upon the stage, our intercourse
was limited to silent bows and courtesies, as I went on and off, to my
palace in Verona, or from Friar Laurence's cell. Mr. F. C---- appeared
to me to have slightly mistaken his vocation: that others had done so
for him was made more manifest to me by my subsequent acquaintance with
him. I encountered him one evening at a very gay ball given by the
Countess de S----. Almost as soon as I came into the room he rushed at
me, exclaiming, "Oh, do come and dance with me, that's a dear good
girl." The "dear good girl" had not the slightest objection to dancing
with anybody, dancing being then my predominant passion, and a chair a
perfectly satisfactory partner if none other could be come by. While
dancing, I was unpleasantly struck with the decidedly unreverend tone of
my partner's remarks. Clergymen danced in those days without reproach,
but I hope that even in those days of dancing clerks they did not often
talk so very much to match the tripping of the light fantastic toe. My
amazement reached its climax when, seeing me exchange signs of amicable
familiarity with some one across the room, Mr. F. C---- said, "Who are
you nodding and smiling to? Oh, your father. You are very fond of him,
ain't you?" To my enthusiastic reply in the affirmative, he said, "Ah,
yes; just so. I dare say you are." And then followed an expression of
his filial disrespect for the highest personage in the realm, of such a
robust significance as fairly took away my breath. Surprised into a
momentary doubt of my partner's sobriety, I could only say, "Mr. F.
C----, if you do not change your style of conversation I must sit down
and leave you to finish the dance alone." He confounded himself in
repeated apologies and entreaties that I would finish the dance with
him, and as I could not find a word to say to him, he went on eagerly to
excuse himself by a short sketch of his life, telling me that he had not
been bred to the Church and had the greatest disinclination to taking
orders; that he had been trained as a sailor, the navy being the career
that he preferred above all others, but that in consequence of the death
of a brother he had been literally taken from on board ship, and, in
spite of the utmost reluctance on his part, compelled to go into the
Church. "Don't you think it's a hard case?" reiterated he, as I still
found it difficult to express my opinion either of him or of his "case,"
both appearing to me equally deplorable. At length I suggested that,
since he had adopted the sacred calling he professed, perhaps it would
be better if he conformed to it at least by outward decency of language
and decorum of demeanor. To this he assented, adding with a sigh, "But,
you see, some people have a natural turn for religion; you have, for
instance, I'm sure; but you see I have not." This appeared to me
incontrovertible. Presently, after a pause, he asked me if I would write
a sermon for him, which tribute to my talent for preaching, of which he
had just undergone a sample, sent me into fits of laughter, though I
replied with some indignation, "Certainly not; I am not a proper person
to write sermons, and you ought to write your own!" "Yes," said he, with
rather touching humility, "but you see I can't,--not good ones, at
least. I'm sure you could, and I wish you would write one for me; Mrs.
N---- has." This statement terminated the singular conversation, which
had been the accompaniment to a quadrille. The vicar of Maple Durham is
dead; had he lived he would doubtless have become a bishop; his family
had already furnished its contingent to the army and navy, in Lord E.
and Lord A.F. C----, and the living of Maple Durham had to be filled and
he to be provided for; and whenever the virtues of the Established
Church system are under discussion, I try to forget this, and one or two
similar instances I have known of its vices as it existed in those days.
But that was near "fifty years since," and such a story as that of my
poor sailor-parson friend could hardly be told now. Nor could one often
now in any part of England find the fellow of my friend H. D----, who
was also the predestined incumbent of a family living. He was
passionately fond of hunting; and, clinging to his beloved "pink" even
after holy orders had made it rather indecorous wear, used to huddle on
his sacred garments of office at week-day solemnities of marrying or
burying, and, having accomplished his clerical duties, rapidly divest
himself of his holy robes, and bloom forth in unmitigated scarlet and
buckskins, while the temporary cloud of sanctity which had obscured them
was rapidly rolled into the vestry closet.
A.F. C---- was pleasant-looking, though not handsome, like the royal
family of England, whose very noble _port de t�te_ he had, with a
charming voice that, my father said, came to him from his mother.
For some time after my first coming out I lost my sleep almost entirely,
and used to lie wide awake the greater part of the night. With more use
of my new profession this nervous wakefulness wore off; but I was
subject to very frequent and severe pains in the side, which any strong
emotion almost invariably brought on, and which were relieved by nothing
but exercise on horseback. The refreshment of this panacea for bodily
and mental ailments was always such to me, that often, returning from
balls where I had danced till daylight, I used to feel that if I could
have an hour's gallop in the fresh morning air, I should be revived
beyond all sleep that I could then get.
Once only I was allowed to test my theory, and I found that the result
answered my expectations entirely. I had been acting in Boston every
night for a whole week, and on Saturday night had acted in two pieces,
and was to start at one o'clock in the morning for New York, between
which and Boston there was no railroad in those days. I was not feeling
well, and was much exhausted by my hard work, but I was sure that if I
could only begin my journey on horseback instead of in the lumbering,
rolling, rocking, heavy, straw-and-leather-smelling "Exclusive Extra"
(that is, private stage-coach), I should get over my fatigue and the
rest of the journey with some chance of not being completely knocked up
by it. After much persuasion my father consented, and after the two
pieces of our farewell night, to a crowded, enthusiastic house, all the
excitement of which of course told upon me even more than the actual
exertion of acting, I had some supper, and at one o'clock, with our
friend, Major M----, and ----, got on horseback, and rode out of Boston.
Major M---- rode with us only about three miles, and then turned back,
leaving us to pursue our road to Dedham, seven miles farther, where the
carriage, with my father and aunt, was to meet us.
The thermometer stood at seventeen degrees below zero; it was the middle
of a Massachusetts winter, and the cold intense. The moon was at the
full, and the night as bright as day; not a stone but was visible on the
iron-hard road, that rang under our horses' hoofs. The whole country was
sheeted with snow, over which the moon threw great floods of yellow
light, while here and there a broken ridge in the smooth, white expanse
turned a sparkling, crystalline edge up to the lovely splendor. It was
wonderfully beautiful and exhilarating, though so cold that my vail was
all frozen over my lips, and we literally hardly dared utter a word for
fear of swallowing scissors and knives in the piercing air, which,
however, was perfectly still and without the slightest breath of wind.
So we rode hard and fast and silently, side by side, through the bright,
profound stillness of the night, and never drew rein till we reached
Dedham, where the carriage with my father and aunt had not yet arrived.
Not a soul was stirring, and not a sound was heard, in the little New
England village; the country tavern was fast shut up; not a light
twinkled from any window, or thread of smoke rose from any chimney;
every house had closed its eyes and ears, and gone to sleep. We had
ridden the whole way as fast as we could, and had kept our blood warm by
the violent exercise, but there was every danger, if we sat many minutes
on our saddles in the piercing cold, that we should be all the worse
instead of the better for that circumstance. Mr. ---- rode along the
houses, looking for some possible shelter, and at last, through the
chink of a shutter, spying a feeble glimmer of light, dismounted, and,
knocking, asked if it were possible for me to be admitted there for a
few minutes, till the carriage, which could not be far distant, came up.
He was answered in the affirmative, and I jumped down from my saddle,
and ran into the friendly refuge, while he paced rapidly to and fro
before the house, leading the horses, to keep himself and them alike
from freezing; a man was to come on the coach-box with the driver, to
take them back to Boston. On looking round I found myself in a miserable
little low room, heated almost to suffocation by an iron stove, and
stifling with the peculiar smell of black dye-stuffs. Here, by the light
of two wretched bits of candle, two women were working with the utmost
dispatch at mourning-garments for a funeral which was to take place that
day, in a few hours. They did not speak to me after making room for me
near the stove, and the only words they exchanged with each other were
laconic demands for scissors, thread, etc.; and so they rapidly plied
their needles in silence, while I, suddenly transported from the cold
brightness without into this funereal, sweltering atmosphere of what
looked like a Black Hole made of crape and bombazine, watched the
lugubrious occupation of the women as if I was in a dream, till the
distant rumbling of wheels growing more and more distinct, I took leave
of my temporary hostesses with many thanks (they were poor New England
workwomen, by whom no other species of acknowledgment would have been
received), and was presently fast asleep in the corner of the carriage,
and awoke only long after to feel rested and refreshed, and well able to
endure the fatigue of the rest of the journey. In spite of this
fortunate result, I do not now, after a lapse of forty years, think the
experiment one that would have answered with many young women's
constitutions, though there is no sort of doubt that the nervous energy
generated by any pleasurable emotion is in itself a great preservative
from unfavorable influences.
One day, when I had gone to the school more for exercise than a lesson,
and was taking a solitary canter in the tan for my own amusement, the
little door under the gallery opened, and Fozzard appeared, introducing
a middle-aged lady and a young girl, who remained standing there while
he advanced toward me, and presently began to put me through all my most
crucial exercises, apparently for their edification. I was always
delighted to go through these particular feats, which amused me
excessively, and in which I took great pride. So I sat through them all,
till, upon a sign from the elder lady, Fozzard, with extreme deference,
opened the door and escorted them forth, and then returning to dismount
me, informed me that I had given a very satisfactory sample of his
teaching to the Duchess of Kent and the Princess Victoria, the latter of
whom was to be placed under his tuition forthwith.
This was the first time I ever saw the woman who holds the most exalted
position in the world, the Queen of England, who has so filled that
supreme station that her name is respected wherever it is heard abroad,
and that she is regarded by her own people with a loyal love such as no
earthly dignity but that of personal worthiness can command.
Now let me say something to you about Lady C---- L----'s criticism
of my performance. In the first place, nothing is easier than to
criticise by comparison, and hardly anything much more difficult
than to form a correct judgment of any work of art (be it what it
may) upon the foundation of abstract principles and fundamental
rules of taste and criticism; for this sort of analysis is really a
study. Comparison is the criticism of the multitude, and I almost
wonder at its being resorted to by a woman of such ability as Lady
C----. I only say this by the way, for to be compared with either
Mrs. Siddons or Miss O'Neill is above my expectation. They were
both professional actresses, which I can hardly yet claim to be;
women who had for years studied the mechanical part of their art,
and rendered themselves proficients in their business; while
although I have certainly had many advantages, in hearing the stage
and acting constantly, tastefully, and thoughtfully discussed, I am
totally inexperienced in all the minor technical processes, most
necessary for the due execution of any dramatic conception. As to
my aunt Siddons--look at her, H----; look at her fine person, her
beautiful face; listen to her magnificent voice; and supposing that
I were as highly endowed with poetical dramatic imagination as she
was (which I certainly am not), is it likely that there can ever be
a shadow of comparison between her and myself, even when years may
have corrected all that is at present crude and imperfect in my
efforts?
Although my mind is much occupied just now with a new part in which
I appear to-morrow, I take advantage of the bodily rest this day
affords me to write you a few lines, which I fear I might not find
time for again as soon as I wish. There was enough in your last
letter, dear H----, to make me melancholy, independently of the
question which you ask respecting my picture in Juliet, and which
the papers have by this time probably answered to you.
Sir Thomas Lawrence is dead. The event has been most distressing,
and most sudden and unexpected to us. It really seemed as though we
had seen him but the day before we heard of it; and indeed, it was
but a few days since my mother had called on him, and since he had
written to me a long letter on the subject of my Belvidera, full of
refined taste and acute criticism, as all his letters to me were.
It was a great shock; indeed, so much so, that absolute amazement
for a little time prevented my feeing all the regret I have since
experienced about it. Nor was it till I sat down to write to
Cecilia, to request her to prevent any sudden communication of the
event to my aunt Siddons, that I felt it was really true, and found
some relief in crying. I had to act Belvidera that same night, and
it was with a very heavy heart that I repeated those passages in
which poor Sir Thomas Lawrence had pointed out alterations and
suggested improvements. He is a great loss to me, individually. His
criticism was invaluable to me. He was a most attentive observer;
no shade of feeling or slightest variation of action or inflection
of voice escaped him; his suggestions were _always_ improvements,
conveyed with the most lucid clearness; and, as you will easily
believe, his strictures were always sufficiently tempered with
refined flattery to have disarmed the most sensitive self-love. My
Juliet and Belvidera both owe much to him, and in this point of
view alone his loss is irreparable to me. It is some matter of
regret, too, as you may suppose, that we can have no picture of me
by him, but this is a more selfish and less important motive of
sorrow than my loss of his advice in my profession. I understand
that my aunt Siddons was dreadfully shocked by the news, and cried,
"And have I lived to see him go before me!" ... His promise to send
you a print from his drawing of me, dearest H----, he cannot
perform, but I will be his executor in this instance, and if you
will tell me how it can be conveyed to you, I will send you one.
This letter, my dearest H----, which was begun on Sunday, I now sit
down to finish on Tuesday evening, and cannot do better, I think,
than give you a full account of our last night's success; for a
very complete success it was, I am happy to say. Murphy's play of
"The Grecian Daughter" I suppose you know; or if you do not, your
state is the more gracious, for certainly anything more flat, poor,
and trashy I cannot well conceive. It had been, you know, a great
part of my aunt Siddons's, and nothing better proves her great
dramatic genius than her having clothed so meager a part in such
magnificent proportions as she gave to it, and filled out by her
own poetical conception the bare skeleton Mr. Murphy's Euphrasia
presented to her. This frightened me a great deal; Juliet and
Belvidera scarcely anybody can do ill, but Euphrasia I thought few
people could do well, and I feared I was not one of them. Moreover,
the language is at once so poor and so bombastic that I took double
the time in getting the part by rote I should have taken for any
part of Shakespeare's. My dress was beautiful; I think I will tell
it you. You know you told me even an account of hat and feathers
would interest you. My skirt was made immensely full and with a
long train; it was of white merino, almost as fine as cashmere,
with a rich gold Grecian border. The drapery which covered my
shoulders (if you wish to look for the sort of costume in
engravings, I give you its classical name, _peplum_) was made of
the same material beautifully embroidered, leaving my arms quite
free and uncovered. I had on flesh-colored silk gloves, of course.
A bright scarlet sash with heavy gilt acorns, falling to my feet,
scarlet sandals to match, and a beautiful Grecian head-dress in
gold, devised by my mother, completed the whole, which really had a
very classical effect, the fine material of which my dress was
formed falling with every movement into soft, graceful folds.
Cecilia dined with us on Sunday, but was very far from well. I have
not seen my aunt Siddons since Sir Thomas Lawrence's death. I
almost dread doing so: she must have felt so much on hearing it; he
was for many years so mixed up with those dearest to her, and his
memory must always recall theirs. I hear Campbell means to write
his life. His letters to me will perhaps be published in it. Had I
known they were likely to be so used, I would have preserved them
all. As it is, it is the merest chance that all of them are not
destroyed; for, admirable as they were in point of taste and
critical judgment, some of them seemed to me such mere specimens of
refined flattery that, having extracted the advice likely to be
profitable to me, I committed the epistles themselves to the
flames, which probably would have been the ultimate destination of
them all; but now they have acquired a sad value they had not
before, and I shall keep them as relics of a man of great genius
and, in many respects, I believe, a truly amiable person.
We are all tolerably well; I am quite so, and rejoice daily in that
strength of constitution which, among other of my qualifications,
entitles me to the appellation of "Shetland pony."
How are you all? How is E----? Tell her all about me, because it
may amuse her. I wish you could have seen me, dear H----, in my
Greek dress; I really look very well in it, and taller than usual,
in consequence of all the long draperies; moreover, I "stood
grandly" erect, and put off the "sidelong stoop" in favor of a more
heroic and statue-like deportment. Oh, H----, I am exceedingly
happy, _et pour peu de chose_, perhaps you will think: my father
has given me leave to have riding lessons, so that I shall be in
right earnest "an angel on horseback," and when I come to Ardgillan
(and it won't be long first) I shall make you mount upon a horse
and gallop over the sand with me; won't you, my dear? Believe me
ever your affectionate
FANNY.
The words in inverted commas at the end of this letter had reference to
some strictures Miss S---- had made upon my carriage, and to a family
joke against me in consequence of my having once said, in speaking of my
desire to ride, that I should not care to be an angel in heaven unless I
could be an "angel on horseback." My invariable description of a woman
riding was "a happy woman," and after much experience of unhappiness,
certainly not dissipated by equestrian exercise, I still agree with
Wordsworth that "the horse and rider are a happy pair." After acting the
Grecian Daughter for some time I altered my attitude in the last scene,
after the murder of Dionysius, more to my own satisfaction: instead of
dropping the arm that held the dagger by my side, I raised the weapon to
heaven, as if appealing to the gods for justification and tendering
them, as it were, the homage of my deed; of course I still continued to
vail my eyes and turn my head away from the sight of my victim.
F. A. K.
I have been so busy all this day, signing benefit tickets, that I
hardly feel as if I could write anything but "25th March, F.A.K."
Our two last letters crossed on the road, and yours was so kind an
answer to mine, which you had not yet received, that I feel no
further scruple in breaking in upon you with the frivolity of my
worldly occupations and proceedings.
I was sorry that the newspapers should give you the first account
of my Mrs. Beverley, but my time is so taken up with "an infinite
deal of nothing" that I have not had an hour to call my own till
this evening, and this evening is my only unengaged one for nearly
three weeks to come.
The papers will probably have set your mind at ease as to the
result of my appearance in "The Gamester;" but although they have
forestalled me in the sum total of the account, there are some
small details which may perhaps interest you, of which they can
give you no knowledge. I shall talk to you much of myself, dearest
H----, and hope it will not weary you; that precious little self is
just now so fully occupied with its own affairs that I have little
else to talk of. [I probably also felt much as our kind and most
comical friend Dessauer used, when he emphatically declared, "Mais,
je m'interesse extr�mement � ce qui me regarde."]
I do not think I ever spent a more miserable day than the one in
which I acted Mrs. Beverley for the first time. Stage nervousness,
my father and mother both tell me, increases instead of diminishing
with practice; and certainly, as far as my own limited experience
goes, I find it so. The first hazard, I should say, was not half so
fearful as the last; and though on the first night that I ever
stood upon the stage I thought I never could be more frightened in
my life, I find that with each new part my fear has augmented in
proportion as previous success would have rendered it more damaging
to fail. A stumble at starting would have been bad enough, and
might have bruised me; but a fall from the height to which I have
been raised might break my neck, or at any rate cripple me for
life. I do not believe that to fail in a part would make me
individually unhappy for a moment; but so much of real importance
to others, so much of the most serious interests and so much of the
feelings of those most dear to me, is involved in the continuance
of my good fortune, that I am in every way justified in dreading a
failure. These considerations, and their not unnatural result, a
violent headache and side-ache, together with no very great liking
for the part (interesting as it is, it is so perfectly prosaic),
had made me so nervous that the whole of the day was spent in fits
of crying; and when the curtain drew up, and I was "discovered,"
I'm sure I must have looked as jaded and tear-worn as poor Mrs.
Beverley ever did. However, all went well with me till the last
act, when my father's acting and my own previous state of
nervousness combined to make my part of the tragedy anything but
feigning; I sobbed so violently that I could hardly articulate my
words, and at the last fell upon the dead body of Beverley with a
hysterical cry that had all the merit of pure nature, if none
other, to recommend it. Fortunately the curtain fell then, and I
was carried to my dressing-room to finish my fit in private. The
last act of that play gives me such pains in my arms and legs, with
sheer nervous distress, that I am ready to drop down with
exhaustion at the end of it; and this reminds me of the very
difficult question which you expect me to answer, respecting the
species of power which is called into play in the act, so called,
of _acting_.
This enviable condition of body and mind was mine while studying
Portia in "The Merchant of Venice," which is to be given on the
25th for my benefit. I shall be much frightened, I know, but I
delight in the part; indeed, Portia is my favoritest of all
Shakespeare's women. She is so generous, affectionate, wise, so
arch and full of fun, and such a true lady, that I think if I could
but convey her to my audience as her creator has conveyed her to
me, I could not fail to please them much. I think her speech to
Bassanio, after his successful choice of the casket, the most
lovely, tender, modest, dignified piece of true womanly feeling
that was ever expressed by woman.
I certainly ought to act that character well, I do so delight in
it; I know nothing of my dress. But perhaps I shall have some
opportunity of writing to you again before it is acted. Now all I
have to say must be packed close, for I ought to be going to bed,
and I have no more paper. I have taken two riding lessons and like
it much, though it makes my bones ache a little. I go out a great
deal, and that I like very much whenever there is dancing, but not
else. My own home spoils me for society; perhaps I ought not to say
it, but after the sort of conversation I am used to the usual
jargon of society seems poor stuff; but you know when I am dancing
I am "o'er all the ills of life victorious." John has taken his
degree and will be back with us at Easter; Henry has left us for
Paris; A---- is quite well, and almost more of a woman than I am;
my father desires his love to you, to which I add mine to your
eldest niece and your invalid, and remain ever your affectionately
attached
F. A. K.
BLACKHEATH.
MY DEAREST H----,
We are spending our holiday of Passion week here for the sake of a
little quiet and fresh air; we had intended going to Dover, but
were prevented. You ask me after my mother: she is pretty well now,
but her health is extremely uncertain, and her spirits, which are
likewise very variable, have so much influence over it that her
condition fluctuates constantly; she has been very well, though,
for the last few days. London, I think, never agrees with her, and
we have been racketing to such a degree that quiet had become not
only desirable but necessary. Thank you for wishing me plenty of
dancing. I have abundance of it, and like it extremely; but I fear
I am very unreasonable about it, for my conscience smote me the
other day when I came to consider that the night before, although
my mother had stayed at a ball with me till three in the morning, I
was by no means gracious in my obedience to her request that I
should spare myself for my work. You see, dear H----, I am much the
same as ever, still as foolishly fond of dancing, and still, I
fear, almost as far from "begetting a temperance in all things" as
when you and I wandered about Heath Farm together.
After predicting to me all manner of good luck and two lovers, and
foretelling that I should marry blue eyes (which I will not), the
gypsy went up to my father, and began, "Pray, sir, let me tell your
fortune: you have been much wronged, sir, kept out of your rights,
sir, and what belonged to you, sir,--and that by them as you
thought was your friends, sir." My father turned away laughing, but
my mother, with a face of amazed and amazing credulity, put her
hand in her pocket, exclaiming, "I must give her something for
that, though!" Isn't that delicious?
Good-by, God bless you; pray look forward to the pleasure of seeing
me, and believe me ever
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
I received your kind letter the other night (that is, morning) on
my return from a ball, and read your reflections on dissipation
with an attention heightened by the appropriate comment of a bad
headache and abject weariness from top to toe with dancing. The way
in which people _prosecute_ their pleasures in this good town of
London is certainly amazing; and we are (perforce) models of
moderation, compared with most of our acquaintance. I met at that
very ball persons who had been to one and two parties previously,
and were leaving that dance to hurry to another. Independently of
the great fatigue of such a life, it seems to me so strange that
when people are enjoying themselves to their hearts' content in one
place, they cannot be satisfied to remain there until they wish to
return home, but spend half the night in the streets, running from
one house to another, working their horses to death, and wasting
the precious time when they might be DANCING. You see my folly is
not so great but that I have philosophy to spare for my neighbors.
Let me tell you again, dear H----, how truly I rejoice in your
niece's restored health. The spring, too, is the very time for such
a resurrection, when every day and every hour, every cloud and
every flower, offer inexhaustible matter for the capabilities of
delight thus regained. Indeed, "the drops on the trees are the most
beautiful of all!" [E---- T----'s exclamation during one of her
first drives after the long imprisonment of her nervous malady.] A
wonderful feeling of renewed hope seems to fill the heart of all
created things in the spring, and even here in this smoky town it
finds its way to us, inclosed as we are by brick walls, dusty
streets, and all things unlovely and unnatural! I stood yesterday
in the little court behind our house, where two unhappy poplars and
a sycamore tree were shaking their leaves as if in surprise at the
acquisition and to make sure they had them, and looked up to the
small bit of blue sky above them with pleasurable spring tears in
my eyes. How I wish I were rich and could afford to be out of town
now! I always dislike London, and this lovely weather gives me a
sort of _mal du pays_ for the country. My dearest H----, you must
not dream of leaving Ardgillan just when I am coming to see you;
that would be indeed a disappointment. My father is not at home at
this moment, but I shall ask him before I close this letter the
exact time when we shall be in Dublin. I look forward with much
pleasure to making my aunt Dall known to you. She is, I am happy to
say, coming with me, for indeed she is in some sense my "all the
world." You have often heard me speak of her, but it is difficult
for words to do justice to one whose whole life is an uninterrupted
stream of usefulness, goodness, and patient devotion to others. I
know but one term that, as the old writers say, "delivers" her
fully, and though it is not unfrequently applied, I think she is
the only person I know who really deserves it; she is _absolutely
unselfish_. I am sure, dear H----, you will excuse this panegyric,
though you do not know how well it is deserved; the proof of its
being so is that there is not one of us but would say the same of
aunt Dall.
My father's benefit took place last Wednesday, when I acted
Isabella; the house was crowded, and the play very successful; I
think I played it well, and I take credit to myself for so doing,
for I dislike both play and part extremely. The worst thing I do in
it is the soliloquy when I am about to stab Biron, and the best, my
death. My dresses were very beautiful, and I am exceedingly glad
the whole thing is over. I suppose it will be my last new part this
season. I am reading with great pleasure a purified edition, just
published, of the old English dramatists; the work, as far as my
ignorance of the original plays will enable me to judge, seems very
well executed, and I owe the editor many thanks for some happy
hours spent with his book. I have just heard something which annoys
me not a little: I am to prepare to act Mrs. Haller. I know very
well that nobody was ever at liberty in this world to do what they
liked and that only; but when I know with what task-like feeling I
set about most of my work, I am both amused and provoked when
people ask me if I do not delight in acting. I have not an idea
what to do with that part; however, I must apply myself to it, and
try; such mawkish sentiment, and such prosaic, commonplace language
seem to me alike difficult to feel and to deliver.
You ask me in one of your last why I do not send you verses any
more, as I used to do, and whether I still write any. So here I
send you some which I improvised the other day in your honor, and
which, written hurriedly as they were, will not, I think, stand the
test of any very severe criticism:--
FANNY KEMBLE.
My first London season was now drawing to an end, and preparations were
begun for a summer tour in the provinces. There had been some talk of my
beginning with Brighton, but for some reason or other this fell through.
BATH, May 31, 1830.
MY DEAR H----,
I have owed you an answer, and a most grateful one, for some time
past, for your kindness in writing me so long a letter as your
last; but when I assure you that, what with leave-taking, trying on
dresses, making purchases, etc., etc., and all the preparations for
our summer tour, this is the first moment in which I have been able
to draw a long breath for the last month, I am sure you will
forgive me, and believe, notwithstanding my long silence, that I
was made very happy indeed by your letter. I bade Covent Garden and
my dear London audience farewell on Friday last, when I acted Lady
Townley for the first time. The house was crammed, and as the
proprietors had fixed that night for a second benefit which they
gave me, I was very glad that it was so. I was very nicely dressed,
and to my own fancy acted well, though I dare say my performance
was a little flat occasionally. But considering my own physical
powers, and the immense size of the theatre, I do not think I
should have done better on the whole by acting more broadly; though
I suppose it would have been more effective, I should have had to
sacrifice something of repose and refinement to make it so. I was
very sorry to leave my London audience: they welcomed my first
appearance; they knew the history of our shipwrecked fortunes, and
though perhaps not one individual amongst them would go a mile out
of his way to serve us, there exists in them, taken collectively, a
kind feeling and respect for my father, and an indulgent good-will
toward me, which I do not hope to find elsewhere. I like Bath very
much; I have not been here since I was six years old, when I spent
a year here in hopes of being _bettered_ by my aunt, Mrs. Twiss. A
most forlorn hope it was. I suppose in human annals there never
existed a more troublesome little brat than I was for the few years
after my first appearance on this earthly stage.
F. A. K.
I believe that you will have felt too well convinced that I had not
had a moment to spare, to be surprised at my not having sooner
acknowledged your very kind letter; nothing but the incessant
occupation of my time would so long have prevented me from doing
so, but I embrace the opportunity which the king's death affords me
of telling you how much obliged to you I was for writing to me, and
writing as you did. I have little news to return you but what
concerns myself, but I shall make no coquettish excuses about that,
for I really believe 'tis the subject that will interest you most
of any I could find. First, then, I am very well, rather tired, and
sitting at an inn window, in a dull, dark, handsome square in
Glasgow. My fortnight in Edinburgh is over, and a short fortnight
it has been, what with rehearsals, riding, sitting for my bust, and
acting. The few hurried glimpses I have caught of my friends have
been like dreams, and now that I have parted from them, no more to
meet them there certainly, the whole seems to me like mere
bewilderment, and I repeat to myself in my thoughts, hardly
believing it, that the next time that I visit Edinburgh I shall not
find the dear companionship of my cousins nor the fond affection of
Mrs. Henry Siddons. This will be a severe loss to me; Edinburgh
will, I fear, be without its greatest charm, and it will remain to
be proved whether these lovely scenes that I have so admired and
delighted in owed all their incomparable fascination to their
intrinsic beauty, or to that most pleasurable frame of mind I
enjoyed at the same time, the consciousness of the kind regard of
the excellent human beings among whom I lived.
F. A. KEMBLE.
I never can forget, however, the description Sir Adam Ferguson gave me
of a morning he had passed with Scott at Abbotsford, which at that time
was still unfinished, and, swarming with carpenters, painters, masons,
and bricklayers, was surrounded with all the dirt and disorderly
discomfort inseparable from the process of house-building. The room they
sat in was in the roughest condition which admitted of their occupying
it, at all; the raw, new chimney smoked intolerably. Out-of-doors the
whole place was one chaos of bricks, mortar, scaffolding, tiles, and
slates. A heavy mist shrouded the whole landscape of lovely Tweed side,
and distilled in a cold, persistent, and dumb drizzle. Maida, the
well-beloved staghound, kept fidgeting in and out of the room, Walter
Scott every five minutes exclaiming, "Eh, Adam! the puir brute's just
wearying to get out;" or, "Eh, Adam! the puir creature's just crying to
come in;" when Sir Adam would open the door to the raw, chilly air for
the wet, muddy hound's exit or entrance, while Scott, with his face
swollen with a grievous toothache, and one hand pressed hard to his
cheek, with the other was writing the inimitably humorous opening
chapters of "The Antiquary," which he passed across the table, sheet by
sheet, to his friend, saying, "Now, Adam, d'ye think that'll do?" Such a
picture of mental triumph over outward circumstances has surely seldom
been surpassed: house-builders, smoky chimney, damp draughts, restless,
dripping dog, and toothache form what our friend, Miss Masson, called a
"concatenation of exteriorities" little favorable to literary
composition of any sort; but considered as accompaniments or inspiration
of that delightfully comical beginning of "The Antiquary," they are all
but incredible.
I returned there on another occasion, one of a large and merry party who
had obtained permission to picnic in the grounds, but who, deterred by
the threatening aspect of the skies from gypsying (as had originally
been proposed) by the side of the Tweed, were allowed, by Sir Adam
Ferguson's interest with the housekeeper, to assemble round the table in
the dining-room of Abbotsford. Here, again, the past was so present with
me as to destroy all enjoyment, and, thinking how I might have had the
great good fortune to sit there with the man who had made the whole
place illustrious, I felt ashamed and grieved at being there then,
though my companions were all kind, merry, good-hearted people, bent
upon their own and each other's enjoyment. Sir Adam Ferguson had grown
very old, and told no more the vivid anecdotes of former days; and to
complete my mental discomfort, on the wall immediately opposite to me
hung a strange picture of Mary Stuart's head, severed from the trunk and
lying on a white cloth on a table, as one sees the head of John the
Baptist in the charger, in pictures of Herodias's daughter. It was a
ghastly presentation of the guillotined head of a pretty but rather
common-looking French woman--a fancy picture which it certainly would
not have been my fancy to have presiding over my dinner-table.
Only once after this dreary party of pleasure did I return, many years
later, to Abbotsford. I was alone, and the tourist season was over, and
the sad autumnal afternoon offering little prospect of my being joined
by other sight-seers, I prevailed with the housekeeper, who admitted me,
to let me wander about the place, without entering the house; and I
spent a most melancholy hour in the garden and in pacing up and down the
terrace overlooking the Tweed side. The place was no longer inhabited at
all; my ringing at the gate had brought, after much delay, a servant
from Mr. Hope's new residence, built at some distance from Scott's
house, and from her I learned that the proprietor of Abbotsford had
withdrawn to the house he had erected for himself, leaving the poet's
dwelling exclusively as a place of pilgrimage for travelers and
strangers, with not even a servant residing under its roof. The house
abandoned to curious wayfarers; the sons and daughters, the grandson and
granddaughter, every member of the founder's family dead; Mr. Hope
remarried to a lady of the house of Arundel, and living in a
semi-monastic seclusion in a house walled off from the tourist-haunted
shrine of the great man whose memory alone was left to inhabit it,--all
these circumstances filled me with indescribable sadness as I paced up
and down in the gloaming, and thought of the strange passion for
founding here a family of the old Border type which had obfuscated the
keen, clear brain of Walter Scott, made his wonderful gifts subservient
to the most futile object of ambition, driven him to the verge of
disgrace and bankruptcy, embittered the evening of his laborious and
glorious career, and finally ended in this,--the utter extinction of the
name he had illustrated and the family he had hoped to found. And while
his noble works remain to make his memory ever loved and honored, this
_Brummagem_ medi�val mansion, this mock feudal castle with its imitation
baronial hall (upon a diminutive scale) hung round with suits of armor,
testifies to the utter perversity of good sense and good taste resulting
from this one mental infirmity, this craving to be a Border chieftain of
the sixteenth century instead of an Edinburgh lawyer of the nineteenth,
and his preference for the distinction of a petty landholder to that of
the foremost genius of his age. Mr. Combe, in speaking of this feudal
insanity of Scott and the piteous havoc it made of his life, told me
that at one time he and Ballantyne, with whom he had entered into
partnership, were staving off imminent ruin by indorsing and accepting
each other's bills, and carried on that process to the extremest verge
compatible with honesty. What a history of astounding success and utter
failure!
You will, ere this, my dear Mrs. Jameson, have received my very
tardy reply to your first kind letter. I got your second last night
at the theater, just after I _had given away my jewels to Mr.
Beverley_. I was much gratified by your profession of affection for
me, for though I am not over-desirous of public admiration and
approbation, I am anxious to secure the good-will of individuals
whose intellect I admire, and on whose character I can with
confidence rely. Your letter, however, made me uncomfortable in
some respects; you seem unhappy and perplexed. I am sure you will
believe me when I say that, without the remotest thought of
intruding on the sacredness of private annoyances and distresses, I
most sincerely sympathize in your uneasiness, whatever may be its
cause, and earnestly pray that the cloud, which the two or three
last times we met in London hung so heavily on your spirits, may
pass away. It is not for me to say to you, "Patience," my dear Mrs.
Jameson; you have suffered too much to have neglected that only
remedy of our afflictions, but I trust Heaven will make it an
efficacious one to you, and erelong send you less need of it. I am
glad you see my mother often, and very glad that to assist your
recollection of me you find interest and amusement in discussing
the fitting up of my room with her. Pray do not forget that the
drawing you made of the rooms in James Street is mine, and that
when you visit me in my new abode it will be pleasant to have that
remembrance before us of a place where we have spent some hours
very happily together.
What you say of Mrs. N---- only echoes my own thoughts of her. She
is a splendid creature, nobly endowed every way; too nobly to
become through mere frivolity and foolish vanity the mark of the
malice and envy of such _things_ as she is surrounded by, and who
will all eagerly embrace the opportunity of slandering one so
immeasurably their superior in every respect. I do not know much of
her, but I feel deeply interested in her; not precisely with the
interest inspired by loving or even liking, but with that feeling
of admiring solicitude with which one must regard a person so
gifted, so tempted, and in such a position as hers. I am glad that
lovely sister of hers is married, though matrimony in that world is
not always the securest haven for a woman's virtue or happiness; it
is sometimes in that society the reverse of an "honorable estate."
I had the misfortune to lose the water-color sketches which Mrs. Jameson
had made of our two drawing-rooms in James Street, Buckingham Gate. They
were very pretty and skillful specimens of a difficult kind of subject,
and valuable as her work, no less than as tokens of her regard for me.
The beautiful G---- S----, to whose marriage I have referred, had she
not been a sister of her sisters, would have been considered a wit; and,
in spite of this, was the greatest beauty of her day. She always
reminded me of what an American once said in speaking of a countrywoman
of his, that she was so lovely that when she came into the room she took
his breath away. While I was in Bath I was asked by a young artist to
sit for my miniature. His portrait had considerable merit as a piece of
delicate, highly finished workmanship; it was taken in the part of
Portia, and engraved; but I think no one, without the label underneath,
would have imagined in it even the intention of my portrait. Whether or
not the cause lay in my own dissimilar expressions and dissimilar
aspects at different times, I do not know; but if a collection was made
of the likenesses that have been taken of me, to the number of nearly
thirty, nobody would ever imagine that they were intended to represent
the same person. Certainly, my Bath miniature produced a version of my
face perfectly unfamiliar to myself and most of my friends who saw it.
CHAPTER XV.
DUBLIN, ----.
DEAR MRS. JAMESON,
I have been reading the "Tempest" all this afternoon, with eyes
constantly dim with those delightful tears which are called up
alike by the sublimity and harmony of nature, and the noblest
creations of genius. I cannot imagine how you should ever feel
discouraged in your work; it seems to me it must be its own
perpetual stimulus and reward. Is not Miranda's exclamation, "O
brave new world, that has such people in it!" on the first sight of
the company of villainous men who ruined her and her father, with
the royal old magician's comment, "'Tis new to thee!" exquisitely
pathetic? I must go to my work; 'tis "The Gamester" to-night; I
wish it were over. Good-by, my dear Mrs. Jameson. Thank you for
your kind letters; I value them very much, and am your affectionate
F. KEMBLE.
Were it not that I have a great opinion both of your kindness and
reasonableness, I should feel rather uncomfortable at the period
which has elapsed since I ought to have written to you; but I am
very sorry not to have been able sooner to reply to your last kind
letter. I shall begin by answering that which interested me most in
it, which you will easily believe was what regarded my dear A----
and the person into whose hands she is about to be committed. In
proportion to the value of the gem is the dread one feels of the
flaws and injuries it may receive in the process of cutting and
polishing; and this, of course, not in this case alone, but that of
every child who still is parent to the man (or woman). My mother
said in one of her letters, "I have engaged a lady to be A----'s
governess." Of course the _have_ must make the expression of regret
or anxiety undesirable, since both are unavailing. I hope it is the
lady you spoke of in your letter to me, for I like very much the
description you give of her, and in answer to the doubt you express
as to whether _I_ could be pleased with a person wanting in
superficial brilliancy and refinement of intellect, I can reply
unequivocally _yes_. I could be well pleased with such a person for
my own companion, if the absence of such qualities were atoned for
by sound judgment and sterling principle; and I am certain that
such a person is best calculated to undertake the task which she is
to perform in our house with good effect. The defect of our home
education is that from the mental tendencies of all of us, no less
than from our whole mode of life, the more imaginative and refined
intellectual qualities are fostered in us in preference to our
reasoning powers. We have all excitable natures, and, whether in
head or heart, that is a disadvantage. The unrestrained indulgence
of feeling is as injurious to moral strength as the undue excess of
fancy is to mental vigor. I think young people would always be the
better for the influence of persons of strong sense, rather than
strong sensibility, who, by fortifying their reason, correct any
tendency to that morbid excitability which is so dangerous to
happiness or usefulness.
I do not, of course, mean that one can eradicate any element of the
original character--that I believe to be impossible; nor is direct
opposition to natural tendencies of much use, for that is really
cultivating qualities by resistance; but by encouraging other
faculties, and by putting aside all that has a tendency to weaken
and enervate, the mind will assume a robust and healthy tone, and
the real feelings will acquire strength by being under reasonable
control and by the suppression of factitious ones. A----'s
education in point of accomplishments and general cultivation of
taste and intellect is already fairly advanced; and the lady who
is, I hope, now to be her companion and directress will be none the
worse for wanting the merely ornamental branches of culture,
provided she holds them at their due value, and neither _under_ nor
_over_ estimates them because she is without them. I hope she is
gentle and attractive in her manners, for it is essential that one
should like as well as respect one's teachers; and should these
qualities be added to the character you give of her, I am sure I
should like her for a governess very much myself. You see by the
room this subject has occupied in my letter how much it fills in my
mind; human souls, minds, and bodies are precious and wonderful
things, and to fit the whole creature for its proper aim here and
hereafter, a solemn and arduous work.
What say you to this French revolution? Have not they made good use
of their time, that in so few years from their last bloody national
convulsion men's minds should so have advanced and expanded in
France as to enable the people to overturn the government and
change the whole course of public affairs with such comparative
moderation and small loss of, life? I was still in Dublin when the
news of the recent events in France reached us, and I never
witnessed anything so like tipsiness as Lady Morgan's delight at
it. I believe she wished herself a Frenchwoman with all her heart,
and she declared she would go over as soon as her next work, which
is in the hands of the publisher, was out. Were I a man, I should
have been well pleased to have been in France some weeks ago; the
rising of the nation against oppression and abuse, and the creating
of a new and better state of things without any outbreak of popular
excess, must have been a fine thing to see. But as a woman,
incapable of mixing personally in such scenes, I would rather have
the report of them at a distance than witness them as a mere
inactive spectator; for though the loss of life has been
comparatively small, considering the great end that has been
achieved, it must be horrible to see bloodshed, even that of a
single individual. I believe I am a great coward. I shall not close
this to-night, but wait till to-morrow, to tell you how my first
appearance here goes off.
We had a very fine house indeed last night, and everything went off
remarkably well. I had every reason to be satisfied with the
audience, who, though proverbially a cold one, were exceedingly
enthusiastic in their applause, which, I suppose, is the best
indication that they were satisfied with me. Good-by, my dear Mrs.
Jameson; believe me yours ever truly,
F. A. K.
The intention of engaging a governess for my sister was not carried out,
and she was taken to Paris and placed under the charge of Mrs. Foster,
wife of the chaplain of the British embassy, under whose care she
pursued her general education, while with the tuition of the celebrated
Bordogni, the first singing-master of the day, she cultivated her fine
voice and developed her musical genius.
Were it not that I should be ashamed to look you in the face when
we meet, which I hope will now be soon, I should be much tempted to
defer thanking you for your last kind letter until that period, for
I am at this moment in the bustle of three departures. My mother
arrived in Manchester this morning, whence my aunt Dall starts
to-night for Buckinghamshire, and my father to-morrow morning at
seven o'clock for London, and at eight my mother and myself start
for Liverpool. I am most anxious to be there for the opening of the
railroad, which takes place on Wednesday. I act in Manchester on
Friday, and after that we shall spend some days with Lord and Lady
W----, at their seat near there; and then I return to London to
begin my winter campaign, when I hope to see you less oppressed
with anxiety and vexation than you were when we parted there. And
now, what shall I say to you? My life for the last three weeks has
been so hurried and busy that, while I have matter for many long
letters, I have hardly time for condensation; you know what Madame
de S�vign� says, "Si j'avais eu plus de temps, je t'aurais �crit
moins longuement." I have been sight-seeing and acting for the last
month, and the first occupation is really the more exhausting of
the two. I will give you a _carte_, and when we meet you shall call
upon me for a detail of any or all of its contents.
I have seen the fine, picturesque old town of Chester; I have seen
Liverpool, its docks, its cemetery, its railway, on which I was
flown away with by a steam-engine, at the rate of five and thirty
miles an hour; I have seen Manchester, power-looms,
spinning-jennies, cotton factories, etc.; I have stayed at the
pleasant modern mansion of Heaton; I have visited Hopwood Hall,
built in the reign of Edward the First, and still retaining its
carved old oaken chimneys and paneled chambers and latticed
windows, and intricate ups and downs of internal architecture, to
present use apparently as purposeless and inconvenient as if one
was living in a cat's-cradle. I have seen a rush-bearing with its
classical morris dance, executed in honor of some antique
observance by the country folk of Lancashire, with whom this
commemoration, but no knowledge of its original significance,
remains. I have seen Birmingham, its button-making, pin-making,
plating, stamping, etc.; I have seen Aston Hall, an old house two
miles from the town, and two hundred from everything in it, where
Charles the First slept after the battle of Edge Hill, and whose
fine old staircase still retains the marks of Cromwell's
cannon,--which house, moreover, possesses an oaken gallery one
hundred and odd feet long, hung with old portraits, one of the most
delightful apartments imaginable. How I did sin in envy, and long
for that nice room to walk up and down and dream and poetize in;
but as I know of no earthly way of compassing this desirable
acquisition but offering myself in exchange for it to its present
possessor (who might not think well of the bargain), _il n'y faut
plus penser_. Moreover, as the grapes are sour, I conclude that
upon the whole it might not be an advantageous one for me. I am at
this moment writing in a drawing-room full of people, at Heaton
(Lord W----'s place), taking up my pen to talk to you and laying it
down to talk to others. I must now, however, close my double and
divided conversation, because I have not brains enough to play at
two games at once. I am ever yours, very sincerely,
F. A. K.
We had now come fifteen miles, and stopped where the road traversed
a wide and deep valley. Stephenson made me alight and led me down
to the bottom of this ravine, over which, in order to keep his road
level, he has thrown a magnificent viaduct of nine arches, the
middle one of which is seventy feet high, through which we saw the
whole of this beautiful little valley. It was lovely and wonderful
beyond all words. He here told me many curious things respecting
this ravine: how he believed the Mersey had once rolled through it;
how the soil had proved so unfavorable for the foundation of his
bridge that it was built upon piles, which had been driven into the
earth to an enormous depth; how, while digging for a foundation, he
had come to a tree bedded in the earth fourteen feet below the
surface of the ground; how tides are caused, and how another flood
might be caused; all of which I have remembered and noted down at
much greater length than I can enter upon it here. He explained to
me the whole construction of the steam-engine, and said he could
soon make a famous engineer of me, which, considering the wonderful
things he has achieved, I dare not say is impossible. His way of
explaining himself is peculiar, but very striking, and I
understood, without difficulty, all that he said to me. We then
rejoined the rest of the party, and the engine having received its
supply of water, the carriage was placed behind it, for it cannot
turn, and was set off at its utmost speed, thirty-five miles an
hour, swifter than a bird flies (for they tried the experiment with
a snipe). You cannot conceive what that sensation of cutting the
air was; the motion is as smooth as possible, too. I could either
have read or written; and as it was, I stood up, and with my bonnet
off "drank the air before me." The wind, which was strong, or
perhaps the force of our own thrusting against it, absolutely
weighed my eyelids down. [I remember a similar experience to this,
the first time I attempted to go behind the sheet of the cataract
of Niagara; the wind coming from beneath the waterfall met me with
such direct force that it literally bore down my eyelids, and I had
to put off the attempt of penetrating behind the curtain of foam
till another day, when that peculiar accident; was less directly
hostile to me in its conditions.] When I closed my eyes this
sensation of flying was quite delightful, and strange beyond
description; yet, strange as it was, I had a perfect sense of
security, and not the slightest fear. At one time, to exhibit the
power of the engine, having met another steam-carriage which was
unsupplied with water, Mr. Stephenson caused it to be fastened in
front of ours; moreover, a wagon laden with timber was also chained
to us, and thus propelling the idle steam-engine, and dragging the
loaded wagon which was beside it, and our own carriage full of
people behind, this brave little she-dragon of ours flew on.
Farther on she met three carts, which, being fastened in front of
her, she pushed on before her without the slightest delay or
difficulty; when I add that this pretty little creature can run
with equal facility either backward or forward, I believe I have
given you an account of all her capacities.
Now for a word or two about the master of all these marvels, with
whom I am most horribly in love. He is a man of from fifty to
fifty-five years of age; his face is fine, though careworn, and
bears an expression of deep thoughtfulness; his mode of explaining
his ideas is peculiar and very original, striking, and forcible;
and although his accent indicates strongly his north-country birth,
his language has not the slightest touch of vulgarity or
coarseness. He has certainly turned my head.
Four years have sufficed to bring this great undertaking to an end.
The railroad will be opened upon the 15th of next month. The Duke
of Wellington is coming down to be present on the occasion, and, I
suppose, what with the thousands of spectators and the novelty of
the spectacle, there will never have been a scene of more striking
interest. The whole cost of the work (including the engines and
carriages) will have been eight hundred and thirty thousand pounds;
and it is already worth double that sum. The directors have kindly
offered us three places for the opening, which is a great favor,
for people are bidding almost anything for a place, I understand;
but I fear we shall be obliged to decline them, as my father is
most anxious to take Henry over to Heidelberg before our season of
work in London begins, which will take place on the first of
October. I think there is every probability of our having a very
prosperous season. London will be particularly gay this winter, and
the king and queen, it is said, are fond of dramatic
entertainments, so that I hope we shall get on well. You will be
glad to hear that our houses here have been very fine, and that
to-night, Friday, which was my benefit, the theater was crowded in
every corner. We do not play here any more, but on Monday we open
at Manchester. You will, I know, be happy to hear that, by way of
answer to the letter I told you I had written my mother, I received
a very delightful one from my dear little sister, the first I have
had from her since I left London. She is a little jewel, and it
will be a sin if she is marred in the cutting and polishing, or if
she is set in tawdry French pinchbeck, instead of fine, strong,
sterling gold. I am sorry to say that the lady Mrs. Jameson
recommended as her governess has not been thought sufficiently
accomplished to undertake the charge. I regret this the more, as in
a letter I have just received from Mrs. Jameson she speaks with
more detail of this lady's qualifications, which seem to me
peculiarly adapted to have a good effect upon such a mind and
character as A----'s.
I wish I had been with your girls at their ball, and come back from
it and found you holding communion with the skies. My dearest
H----, sublime and sweet and holy as are the feelings with which I
look up to the star-paved heavens, or to the glorious summer sun,
or listen to the music of the great waves, I do not for an instant
mistake the adoration of the almighty power manifested in these
works of God, for religion. You tell me to beware of mixing up
emotional or imaginative excitement with my devotion. And I think I
can truly answer that I do not do so. I told you that the cathedral
service was not prayer to me; nor do I ever confound a mere
emotional or imaginative enthusiasm, even when excited by the
highest of all objects of contemplation, with the daily and hourly
endeavor after righteousness--the humble trust, resignation,
obedience, and thankfulness, which I believe constitute the vital
part of religious faith. I humbly hope I keep the sacred ground of
my religion clear from whatever does not belong to the spirit of
its practice. As long as I can remember, I have endeavored to guard
against mistaking emotion for religion, and have even sometimes
been apprehensive lest the admiration I felt for certain passages
in the Psalms and the Hebrew prophets should make me forget the
more solemn and sacred purposes of the book of life, and the glad
tidings of our salvation. And though, when I look up as you did at
the worlds with which our midnight sky is studded, I feel inclined
to break out, "The heavens declare the glory of God," or, when I
stand upon the shore, can hardly refrain from crying aloud, "The
sea is His, and He made it," I do not in these moments of sublime
emotion forget that He is the God to whom all hearts be open; who,
from the moment I rise until I lie down to rest, witnesses my every
thought and feeling; to whom I look for support against the evil of
my own nature and the temptations which He allots me, who bestows
every blessing and inspires every good impulse, who will strengthen
me for every duty and trial: my Father, in whom I live and move and
have my being. I do not fear that my imagination will become
over-excited with thoughts such as these, but I often regret most
bitterly that my heart is not more deeply touched by them. Your
definition of the love of God seemed almost like a reproach to my
conscience. How miserably our practice halts behind our knowledge
of good, even when tried at the bar of our own lenient judgment,
and by our imperfect standard of right! how poorly does our life
answer to our profession! I should speak in the singular, for I am
only uttering my own self-condemnation. But as the excellence we
adore surpasses our comprehension, so does the mercy, and in that
lies our only trust and confidence.
I fear Miss W---- either has not received my letter or does not
mean to answer it, for I have received no reply, and I dare not try
again. Up to a certain point I am impudent enough, but not beyond
that. Why do you threaten me with dancing to me? Have I lately
given you cause to think I deserve to have such a punishment hung
_in terrorem_ over me? Besides, threatening me is injudicious, for
it rouses a spirit of resistance in me not easy to break down. I
assure you _o_ [in allusion to my mispronunciation of that vowel]
is really greatly improved. I take much pains with it, as also with
my deportment; they will, I hope, no longer annoy you when next we
meet. You must not call Mrs. J---- my friend, for I do not. I like
her much, and I see a great deal to esteem and admire in her, but I
do not _yet_ call her my friend. You are my friend, and Mrs. Harry
Siddons is my friend, and you are the only persons I call by that
name. I have read "Paul Clifford," according to your desire, and
like it very much; it is written with a good purpose, and very
powerfully. You asked me if I believed such selfishness as
Brandon's to be natural, and I said yes, not having read the book,
but merely from your report of him; and, having read the book, I
say so still.
CHAPTER XVI.
I should have answered your letter sooner had I before been able to
give you any certain intelligence of our theatrical proceedings
next week, but I was so afraid of some change taking place in the
list of the plays that I resolved not to write until alteration was
impossible. The plays for next week are, on Monday, "Venice
Preserved;" on Wednesday, "The Grecian Daughter;" Thursday, "The
Merchant of Venice." I wish your people may be able to come up, the
latter end of the week; I think "Romeo and Juliet," and "The
Merchant of Venice," are nice plays for them to see. But you have,
I know, an invitation from Mrs. J---- to come into town on Monday.
I do not know whether my wishes have at all influenced her in this,
but she has my very best thanks for it, and I know that they will
have some weight with you in inclining you to accept it; do, my
dearest H----, come if you can. I shall certainly not be able to
return to Ardgillan, and so my only chance of seeing you depends
upon your coming into Dublin. I wish I had been with you when you
sat in the sun and listened to the wind singing over the sea. I
have a great admiration for the wind, not so much for its purifying
influences only, as for its invisible power, strength, the quality
above all others without which there is neither moral nor mental
greatness possible. Natural objects endowed with this invisible
power please me best, as human beings who possess it attract me
most; and my preference for it over other elements of character is
because I think it communicates itself, and that while in contact
with it one feels as if it were _catching_; and whether by the
shore, when the tide is coming up fast and irresistible, or in the
books or intercourse of other minds, it seems to rouse
corresponding activity and energy in one's self, persuading one,
for the time being, that one is strong. I am sure I have felt
taller by three inches, as well as three times more vigorous in
body and mind, than I really am, when running by the sea. It seemed
as if that great mass of waters, as it rushed and roared by my
side, was communicating power directly to my mind as well as my
bodily frame, by its companionship. I wish I was on the shore now
with you. It is surprising (talking of E----) how instantaneously,
and by what subtle, indescribable means, certain qualities of
individual natures make themselves felt--refinement, imagination,
poetical sensibility. People's voices, looks, and gestures betray
these so unconsciously; and I think more by the manner, a great
deal, than the matter of their speech. Refinement, particularly, is
a wonderfully subtle, penetrating element; nothing is so positive
in its effect, and nothing so completely escapes analysis and
defies description.
I hope I may see you again, dear H----. You are wrong when you say
you cannot be of service to me; I can judge better of the value of
your intercourse to me than you can, and I wish I could have the
advantage of more of it before I plunge back into "toil and
trouble." I have two very opposite feelings about my present
avocation: utter dislike to it and everything, connected with it,
and an upbraiding sense of ingratitude when I reflect how
prosperous and smooth my entrance upon my career has been. I hope,
ere long, to be able to remember habitually what only occasionally
occurs to me now, as a comfort and support, that since it was right
for me to embrace this profession, it is incumbent upon me to
banish all selfish regrets about the surrender of my personal
tastes and feelings, which must be sacrificed to real and useful
results for myself and others. You see, I write as I talk, still
about myself; and I am sometimes afraid that my very desire to
improve keeps me occupied too much about myself and will make a
little moral egotist of me. I am going to bid good-by to Miss W----
this morning; I should like her to like me; I believe I should
value her friendship as I ought. Good friends are like the shrubs
and trees that grow on a steep ascent: while we toil up, and our
eyes are fixed on the summit, we unconsciously grasp and lean upon
them for support and assistance on our way. God bless you, dear
H----. I hope to be with you soon, but cannot say at present how
soon that may be.
F. A. K.
You say to me in your last letter that you could not live at the
rate I do; but my life is very different now from what it was while
with you. I am silent and quiet and oppressed with irksome duties,
and altogether a different creature from your late companion by the
sea-shore. It is true that that _was_ my natural condition, but if
you were here with me now, in the midst of all these unnatural
sights and sounds, I do not think I should weary you with my
overflowing life and spirits, as I fear I did at Ardgillan. I was
as happy there as the birds that fly in the clear sky above the
sea, and much happier, for I had your companionship in addition to
the delight which mere existence is in such scenes. I am glad Lily
made and wore the wreath of lilac blossoms; I was sure it would
become her. Give her my love and thanks for having done as I asked
her. Oh, do not wish Ardgillan fifteen miles from London! Even for
the sake of seeing you, I would not bring you near the smoke and
dirt and comparative confinement of such a situation; I would not
take you from your sea and sky and trees, even to have you within
reach of me.
Certainly it is the natural evil of the human mind, and not the
supernatural agency in the story of its development, that makes
Macbeth so terrible; it is the hideousness of a wicked soul, into
which enter more foul ingredients than are held in the witches'
caldron of abominations, that makes the play so tremendous. I wish
we had read that great work together. How it contrasts with what we
did read, the "Tempest," that brightest creation of a wholesome
genius in its hour of happiest inspiration!
I believe some people think it presumptuous to pray for any one but
themselves; but it seems to me strange to share every, feeling with
those we love and not associate them with our best and holiest
aspirations; to remember them everywhere but there where it is of
the utmost importance to us all to be remembered; to desire all
happiness for them, and not to implore in their behalf the Giver of
all good. I think I pray even more fervently for those I love than
for myself. Pray for me, my dear H----, and God bless you and give
you strength and peace. Your affectionate
F. A. K.
I have not seen the railroad yet; if you do not write soon to me,
we shall be gone to Manchester.
A very serious cause for depression had added itself to the weariness of
spirit with which my distaste for my profession often affected me. While
at Liverpool, I received a letter from my brother John which filled me
with surprise and vexation. After his return from Germany he had
expressed his determination to go into the Church; and we all supposed
him to be in the country, zealously engaged in the necessary preparatory
studies. Infinite, therefore, was my astonishment to receive from him a
letter dated from Algeciras, in Spain, telling me that he and several of
his college companions, Sterling, Barton, Trench, and Boyd among others,
had determined to lend the aid of their enthusiastic sympathy to the
cause of liberty in Spain. The "cause of liberty in Spain" was then
represented by the rash and ill-fated rising of General Torrijos against
the Spanish Government, that protean nightmare which, in one form or
another of bigotry and oppression, has ridden that unfortunate country
up to a very recent time, when civil war has again interfered with
apparently little prospect of any better result. My distress at
receiving such unexpected news from my brother was aggravated by his
forbidding me to write to him or speak of his plans and proceedings to
any one. This concealment, which would have been both difficult and
repugnant to me, was rendered impossible by the circumstances under
which his letter reached me, and we all bore together, as well as we
could, this severe disappointment and the cruel anxiety of receiving no
further intelligence from John for a considerable time. I was bitterly
grieved by this letter, which clearly indicated that the sacred
profession for which my brother had begun to prepare himself, and in
which we had hoped to see him ere long honorably and usefully laboring,
was as little likely to be steadily pursued by him as the legal career
which he had renounced for it. Richard Trench brought home a knowledge
of the Spanish tongue which has given to his own some beautiful
translations of Calderon's masterpieces; and his early crusade for the
enfranchisement of Spain has not militated against the well-deserved
distinction he has achieved in the high calling to which he devoted
himself. With my brother, however, the case was different. This romantic
expedition canceled all his purposes and prospects of entering the
Church, and Alfred Tennyson's fine sonnet, addressed to him when he
first determined to dedicate himself to the service of the temple, is
all that bears witness to that short-lived consecration: it was poetry,
but not prophecy.
The news of the revolt in the Netherlands, together with the fact
that one of our dear ones is away from us in scenes of peril and
disturbance, has, I think, shaken my father's purpose of sending
Henry to Heidelberg. It is a bad thing to leave a boy of eighteen
so far from home control and influences; and he is of a sweet,
affectionate, gentle disposition, that makes him liable to be
easily led and persuaded by the examples and counsels of others.
Moreover, he is at the age when boys are always in some love-scrape
or other, and if he is left alone at Heidelberg, in his own
unassisted weakness, at such a distance from us all, I should not
be surprised to hear that he had constituted himself the lord and
master of some blue-eyed _fr�ulein_ with whom he could not exchange
a dozen words in her own vernacular, and had become a
_dis_-respectable _pater familias_ at nineteen. In the midst of all
the worry and anxiety which these considerations occasion, we are
living here a most unsettled, flurried life of divided work and
pleasure. We have gone out to Heaton every morning after rehearsal,
and come in with the W----s in the evening, to act. I think
to-night we shall sleep there after the play, and come in with the
W----s after dinner to-morrow. They had expected us to spend some
days with them, and perhaps, after our Birmingham engagement, we
may be able to do so. Heaton is a charming specimen of a fine
country-house, and Lady W---- a charming specimen of a fine lady;
she is handsome, stately, and gentle. I like Lord W----; he is
clever, or rather accomplished, and refined. They are both of them
very kind to me, and most pressing in their entreaties that we
should return and stay as long as we can with them. To-morrow is my
last night here; on Monday we act at Birmingham, and my father
thinks we shall be able to avail ourselves of the invitation of our
Liverpool friends, and witness the opening of the railroad. This
would be a memorable pleasure, the opportunity of which should
certainly not be neglected. I have been gratified and interested
this morning and yesterday by going over one of the largest
manufactories of this place, where I have seen a number of
astonishing processes, from the fusing of iron in its roughest
state to the construction of the most complicated machinery and the
work that it performs. I have been examining and watching and
admiring power-looms, and spinning-jennies, and every species of
work accomplished by machinery. But what pleased me most of all was
the process of casting iron. Did you know that the solid masses of
iron-work which we see in powerful engines were many of them cast
in moulds of sand?--inconstant, shifting, restless sand! The
strongest iron of all, though, gets its strength beaten into it.
During the two days which were all we could spare for Heaton, I
walked and rode and sang and talked, and was so well amused and
pleased that I hope, after our week's work is over here, we may
return there for a short-time. I must tell you of a curious little
bit of _ancientry_ which I saw at Heaton, which greatly delighted
me--a "rush-bearing." At a certain period of the year, generally
the beginning of autumn, it was formerly the wont in some parts of
Lancashire to go round with sundry rustic mummeries to all the
churches and strew them with rushes. The religious intention of the
custom has passed away, but a pretty rural procession, which I
witnessed, still keeps up the memory of it hereabouts. I was
sitting at my window, looking out over the lawn, which slopes
charmingly on every side down to the house, when the still summer
air was suddenly filled with the sound of distant shouts and music,
and presently the quaint pageant drew in sight. First came an
immense wagon piled with rushes in a stack-like form, on the top of
which sat two men holding two huge nosegays. This was drawn by a
team of Lord W----'s finest farm-horses, all covered with scarlet
cloths, and decked with ribbons and bells and flowers. After this
came twelve country lads and lasses, dancing the real old
morris-dance, with their handkerchiefs flying, and in all the
rustic elegance of apparel which they could command for the
occasion. After them followed a very good village band, and then a
species of flowery canopy, under which walked a man and woman
covered with finery, who, Lord W---- told me, represented Adam and
Eve. The procession closed with a _fool_ fantastically dressed out,
and carrying the classical bladder at the end of his stick. They
drew up before the house and danced their morris-dance for us. The
scraps of old poetry which came into my head, the contrast between
this pretty picture of a bygone time and the modern but by no means
unpicturesque group assembled under the portico, filled my mind
with the pleasantest ideas, and I was quite sorry when the rural
pageant wound up the woody heights again, and the last shout and
peal of music came back across the sunny lawn. I am very glad I saw
it. I have visited, too, Hopwood Hall, an enchanting old house in
the neighborhood of Heaton, some parts of which are as old as the
reign of Edward the First. The gloomy but comfortable oak rooms,
the beautiful and curious carving of which might afford one days of
entertaining study, the low, latticed windows, and intricate,
winding, up-and-down passages, contrasted and combined with all the
elegant adornments of modern luxury, and the pretty country in
which the house is situated, all delighted me. I must leave off
writing to you now; I have to dress, and dine at three, which I am
sorry for. Thank you for Mrs. Hemans's beautiful lines, which made
me cry very heartily. I have not been altogether well for the last
few days, and am feeling tired and out of spirits; if I can get a
few days' quiet enjoyment of the country at Heaton, I shall feel
fitter for my winter work than I do now.
You probably have by this time heard and read accounts of the
opening of the railroad, and the fearful accident which occurred at
it, for the papers are full of nothing else. The accident you
mention _did_ occur, but though the unfortunate man who was killed
bore Mr. Stephenson's name, he was not related to him. I will tell
you something of the events on the 15th, as, though you may be
acquainted with the circumstances of poor Mr. Huskisson's death,
none but an eyewitness of the whole scene can form a conception of
it. I told you that we had had places given to us, and it was the
main purpose of our returning from Birmingham to Manchester to be
present at what promised to be one of the most striking events in
the scientific annals of our country. We started on Wednesday last,
to the number of about eight hundred people, in carriages
constructed as I before described to you. The most intense
curiosity and excitement prevailed, and, though the weather was
uncertain, enormous masses of densely packed people lined the road,
shouting and waving hats and handkerchiefs as we flew by them. What
with the sight and sound of these cheering multitudes and the
tremendous velocity with which we were borne past them, my spirits
rose to the true champagne height, and I never enjoyed anything so
much as the first hour of our progress. I had been unluckily
separated from my mother in the first distribution of places, but
by an exchange of seats which she was enabled to make she rejoined
me when I was at the height of my ecstasy, which was considerably
damped by finding that she was frightened to death, and intent upon
nothing but devising means of escaping from a situation which
appeared to her to threaten with instant annihilation herself and
all her traveling companions. While I was chewing the cud of this
disappointment, which was rather bitter, as I had expected her to
be as delighted as myself with our excursion, a man flew by us,
calling out through a speaking-trumpet to stop the engine, for that
somebody in the directors' carriage had sustained an injury. We
were all stopped accordingly, and presently a hundred voices were
heard exclaiming that Mr. Huskisson was killed; the confusion that
ensued is indescribable: the calling out from carriage to carriage
to ascertain the truth, the contrary reports which were sent back
to us, the hundred questions eagerly uttered at once, and the
repeated and urgent demands for surgical assistance, created a
sudden turmoil that was quite sickening. At last we distinctly
ascertained that the unfortunate man's thigh was broken. From Lady
W----, who was in the duke's carriage, and within three yards of
the spot where the accident happened, I had the following details,
the horror of witnessing which we were spared through our situation
behind the great carriage. The engine had stopped to take in a
supply of water, and several of the gentlemen in the directors'
carriage had jumped out to look about them. Lord W----, Count
Batthyany, Count Matuscenitz, and Mr. Huskisson among the rest were
standing talking in the middle of the road, when an engine on the
other line, which was parading up and down merely to show its
speed, was seen coming down upon them like lightning. The most
active of those in peril sprang back into their seats: Lord W----
saved his life only by rushing behind the duke's carriage, and
Count Matuscenitz had but just leaped into it, with the engine all
but touching his heels as he did so; while poor Mr. Huskisson, less
active from the effects of age and ill health, bewildered, too, by
the frantic cries of "Stop the engine! Clear the track!" that
resounded on all sides, completely lost his head, looked helplessly
to the right and left, and was instantaneously prostrated by the
fatal machine, which dashed down like a thunderbolt upon him, and
passed over his leg, smashing and mangling it in the most horrible
way. (Lady W---- said she distinctly heard the crushing of the
bone.) So terrible was the effect of the appalling accident that,
except that ghastly "crushing" and poor Mrs. Huskisson's piercing
shriek, not a sound was heard or a word uttered among the immediate
spectators of the catastrophe. Lord W---- was the first to raise
the poor sufferer, and calling to aid his surgical skill, which is
considerable, he tied up the severed artery, and for a time, at
least, prevented death by loss of blood. Mr. Huskisson was then
placed in a carriage with his wife and Lord W----, and the engine,
having been detached from the director's carriage, conveyed them to
Manchester. So great was the shock produced upon the whole party by
this event, that the Duke of Wellington declared his intention not
to proceed, but to return immediately to Liverpool. However, upon
its being represented to him that the whole population of
Manchester had turned out to witness the procession, and that a
disappointment might give rise to riots and disturbances, he
consented to go on, and gloomily enough the rest of the journey was
accomplished. We had intended returning to Liverpool by the
railroad, but Lady W----, who seized upon me in the midst of the
crowd, persuaded us to accompany her home, which we gladly did.
Lord W---- did not return till past ten o'clock, at which hour he
brought the intelligence of Mr. Huskisson's death. I need not tell
you of the sort of whispering awe which this event threw over our
whole circle, and yet, great as was the horror excited by it, I
could not help feeling how evanescent the effect of it was after
all. The shuddering terror of seeing our fellow-creature thus
struck down by our side, and the breathless thankfulness for our
own preservation, rendered the first evening of our party at Heaton
almost solemn; but the next day the occurrence became a subject of
earnest, it is true, but free discussion; and after that, was
alluded to with almost as little apparent feeling as if it had not
passed under our eyes, and within the space of a few hours.
They had beautiful figures as well as faces, and dressed peculiarly and
so as to display them to the greatest advantage. Long and very full
skirts gathered or plaited all round a pointed waist were then the
fashion; these lovely ladies, with a righteous scorn of all
disfigurement of their beauty, wore extremely short skirts, which showed
their thorough-bred feet and ankles, and were perfectly plain round
their waists and over their hips, with bodies so low on the shoulders
and bosom that there was certainly as little as possible of their
beautiful persons concealed. I remember wishing it were consistent with
her comfort and the general decorum of modern manners that Isabella
Forrester's gown could only slip entirely off her exquisite bust. I
suppose I felt as poor Gibson, the sculptor, who, looking at his friend
and pupil's (Miss Hosmer's) statue of Beatrice Cenci, the back of which
was copied from that of Lady A---- T----, exclaimed in his slow,
measured, deliberate manner, "And to think that the cursed prejudices of
society prevent my seeing that beautiful back!" Count and Countess
Batthyany (she the former widow of the celebrated Austrian general,
Bubna, a most distinguished and charming woman) were visitors at Heaton
at this time, as was also Henry Greville, with whom I then first became
acquainted, and who from that time until his death was my kind and
constant friend. He was for several years attached to the embassy in
Paris, and afterward had some small nominal post in the household of the
Duchess of Cambridge, and was Gentleman Gold-Stick in waiting at court.
He was not in any way intellectually remarkable; he had a passion for
music, and was one of the best society singers of his day, being (that,
to me, incomprehensible thing) a _m�lomane_ for one kind of music only.
Passionately fond of Italian operatic music, he did not understand, and
therefore cordially detested, German music. He had a passion for the
stage; but though he delighted in acting he did not particularly excel
in it. He had a taste for everything elegant and refined, and his small
house in May-Fair was a perfect casket full of gems. He was a natural
exquisite, and perfectly simple and unaffected, a great authority in all
matters of fashion both in Paris and in London, and a universal
favorite, especially with the women, in the highest society of both
capitals. His social position, friendly intimacy with several of the
most celebrated musical and dramatic artists of his day, passion for
political and private gossip, easy and pleasant style of letter-writing,
and general rather supercilious fastidiousness, used sometimes to remind
me of Horace Walpole. He had a singularly kind heart and amiable nature,
for a life of mere frivolous pleasure had not impaired the one or the
other. His serviceableness to his friends was unwearied, and his
generous liberality toward all whom he could help either with his
interest, his trouble, or his purse was unfailing.
The whole gay party assembled at Heaton, my mother and myself included,
went to Liverpool for the opening of the railroad. The throng of
strangers gathered there for the same purpose made it almost impossible
to obtain a night's lodging for love or money; and glad and thankful
were we to put up with and be put up in a tiny garret by our old friend,
Mr. Radley, of the Adelphi, which many would have given twice what we
paid to obtain. The day opened gloriously, and never was seen an
innumerable concourse of sight-seers in better humor than the surging,
swaying crowd that lined the railroad with living faces. How dreadfully
that brilliant opening was overcast I have described in the letter given
above. After this disastrous event the day became overcast, and as we
neared Manchester the sky grew cloudy and dark, and it began to rain.
The vast concourse of people who had assembled to witness the triumphant
arrival of the successful travelers was of the lowest order of mechanics
and artisans, among whom great distress and a dangerous spirit of
discontent with the Government at that time prevailed. Groans and hisses
greeted the carriage, full of influential personages, in which the Duke
of Wellington sat. High above the grim and grimy crowd of scowling faces
a loom had been erected, at which sat a tattered, starved-looking
weaver, evidently set there as a _representative man_, to protest
against this triumph of machinery, and the gain and glory which the
wealthy Liverpool and Manchester men were likely to derive from it. The
contrast between our departure from Liverpool and our arrival at
Manchester was one of the most striking things I ever witnessed. The
news of Mr. Huskisson's fatal accident spread immediately, and his
death, which did not occur till the evening, was anticipated by rumor. A
terrible cloud covered this great national achievement, and its success,
which in every respect was complete, was atoned for to the Nemesis of
good fortune by the sacrifice of the first financial statesman of the
country.
CHAPTER XVII.
I have risen very early, for what with excitement, and the
wakefulness always attendant with me upon a new bed, I have slept
but little, and I snatch this first hour of the day, the only one I
may be able to command, to tell you that I have heard from my
brother, and that he is safe and well, for which, thank God!
Further I know nothing. He talks vaguely of being with us toward
the end of the winter, but in the meantime, unless he finds some
means of conveying some tidings of his welfare to me, I must remain
in utter ignorance of his circumstances and situation. Your letter,
which was to welcome me to my new home, arrived there two days
before I did, and was forwarded to me into Buckinghamshire. A few
days there--taking what interest I could in the sporting and
fishing, the country quiet of the place, and above all the
privilege of taking the sacrament, which, had I remained at Heaton,
I should have had no opportunity of doing--gave me a breathing-time
and a sense of mental repose before entering again upon that busy
life whose demands are already besieging me in the inexorable form
of half a dozen new stage dresses to be devised, ordered, and
executed in the shortest imaginable time.
October 3d.
Mrs. Henry Siddons has taken a house in London for six months; I
have not seen her yet, but am most anxious to do so. Anxiety and
annoyance, I fear, have just caused her a severe indisposition, but
she is a little better now. Mrs. Siddons is much better. She is
staying at Leamington at present.
I did not like the place at which they were staying as much as they
did, for though the country was very pretty, I had during the
summer tour seen so much that surpassed it that I saw it at a
disadvantage. Then, I have no fancy for gypsying, and the greatest
taste for all the formal proprieties of life, and what I should
call "silver fork existence" in general; and the inconveniences of
a small country inn, without really affecting my comfort, disturb
my decided preference for luxury. The principal diversion my
ingenious mind discovered to while away my time with was a _fiddle_
(an elderly one), which I routed out of a lumber closet, and from
which, after due invocations to St. Cecilia, I drew such diabolical
sounds as I flatter myself were never excelled by Tartini or his
master, the devil himself. I must now close this, for it is
tea-time.
I never heard hisses on the stage before or since; and though I was very
well aware that on this occasion they were addressed neither to me nor
to my performance, I think if they had been the whistling of bullets
(which I have also heard nearer than was pleasant) I could not have felt
more frightened and furious.
The manager, in his own distress not unmindful of his poor friend, the
authoress, sought her out to console her, and found her seated at the
side scene with a glass of stiff brandy and water that some
commiserating friend had administered to her for her support, rocking
herself piteously to and fro, and, with the tears streaming down her
cheeks, uttering between sobs and sips, in utter self-abasement, her
_peccavi_ in the form of oaths and imprecations of the finest
Billingsgate vernacular (all, however, addressed to herself), that would
have made a dragoon shake in his shoes. The original form of which _mea
culpa_ seized the worthy manager with such an irresistibly ludicrous
effect that he left the poor, guilty authoress without being able to
address a syllable to her, lest he should explode in peals of laughter
instead of decent words of condolence.
Lord Byron took the same story for the subject of his powerful play of
"Werner," in which Mr. Macready acted so finely, and with such great
success.
I have been too busy to answer your last sooner, but this hour
before bedtime, the first quiet one for some time, shall be yours.
I have heard nothing more of my brother, and am ignorant where he
is or how engaged at present. You judged rightly with respect to
the impossibility of longer keeping my mother in ignorance of his
absence from England. The result was pretty much what I had
apprehended; but her feelings have now become somewhat calmer on
the subject. We are careful, however, as much as possible, to avoid
all mention of or reference to my brother in her presence, for she
is in a very cruel state of anxiety about him.
You shall come to London, that huge mass of matter for thought and
observation, and to me, in whom you find so interesting an epitome
of all the moods, tenses, and conjugations of every regular and
irregular form of "to do, to be, and to suffer;" and when you have
been sufficiently _smoked, fogged_, astonished, and edified, you
shall return home with one infallible result of your stay with
us--increased value for a peaceful life, quiet companions, a wide
sea-view, and potatoes roasted in their skins; not but what you
shall have the last-mentioned luxury here, if you will but come.
Now, dear H----, I wish this very much, but promise to bear your
answer reasonably well; I depend upon your indulging me if you can,
and shall try not to behave ill if you don't; so do me justice, and
do not give way to your shyness and habits of retirement. I want
you to come here before the 20th of November, and then I will let
you go in time to be at home for Christmas. So now my cause is in
your hands--_avisez-vous_.
I wonder whether you have heard that my father has been thrashing
the editor of the _Age_ newspaper, who, it seems, took offence at
my father's not appearing on sufficiently familiar terms with him
somewhere or other when they met, in revenge for which "coldness"
(as he styles it) he has not ceased for the last six months abusing
us, every week, in his paper. From what I hear I was the especial
mark of his malice; of course I need not tell you that, knowing the
character of this publication, I should never have looked at it,
and the circumstance of my name appearing in its columns would
hardly have been an inducement to me to do so. I knew nothing,
therefore, of my own injuries, but heard general expressions of
indignation against Mr. Westmacott, and saw that my father was
extremely exasperated upon the subject. The other night they were
all going to the play, and pressed me very much to go too, but I
had something I wished to write, and remained at home. On their
return my father appeared to me much excited, and I was informed
that having unluckily come across Mr. Westmacott, his wrath had got
the better of his self-command, and he had bestowed a severe
beating upon that individual. I could not help looking very grave
at this; for though I should have been very well satisfied if it
could have _rained_ a good thrashing upon Mr. Westmacott from the
sky, yet as I do not approve of returning injuries by injuries, I
could not rejoice that my father had done so. I suppose he saw that
I had no great satisfaction in the event, for he said, "The law
affords no redress against such attacks as this paper makes on
people, and I thought it time to take justice in my own hands when
my daughter is insulted." He then repeated some of the language
made use of with reference to me in the _Age_, and I could not help
blushing with indignation to my fingers' ends.
I must have done writing, though I had a good deal more to say. God
bless you, dear. If you answer this letter directly, I will write
you a better next time.
Ever yours,
F. A. K.
Two of our family, my eldest brother and myself, were endowed with such
robust self-esteem and elastic conceit as not only defied repression,
but, unfortunately for us, could never be effectually snubbed; with my
sister and my younger brother the case was entirely different, and
encouragement was rather what they required. How well it is for the best
and wisest, as well as the least good and least wise, of trainers of
youth, that God is above all. I do not myself understand the love that
blinds one to the defects of those dear to one; their faults are part of
themselves, without which they could not be themselves, no more to be
denied or dissembled, it seems to me, than the color of their eyes or
hair. I do not feel the scruple which I observe in others, in alluding
to the failings of those they love. The mingled good and evil qualities
in my friends make up their individual identity, and neither from
myself, nor from them, nor from others does it ever occur to me that
half that identity should or could be concealed. I could as soon imagine
them without their arms or their legs as without their peculiar moral
characteristics, and could no more think of them without their faults
than without their virtues.
As for drawing, that I have once or twice tried to accomplish, but the
circumstances of my unsettled and restless life have been unfavorable
for any steady effort to follow it up, and I have got no further yet
than a passionate desire to know how to draw. If (as I sometimes
imagine) in a future existence undeveloped capacities and persistent
yearnings for all kinds of good may find expansion and exercise, and not
only our moral but also our intellectual being put forth new powers and
achieve progress in new directions, then in some of the successive
heavens to which, perhaps, I may be allowed to climb (if to any) I shall
be a painter of pictures; a mere idea that suggests a heavenly state of
long-desired capacity, to possess which, here on earth, I would give at
once the finger of either hand least indispensable to an artist. Of the
two pursuits, a painter's or a musician's, considered not as arts but as
accomplishments merely, the former appears to me infinitely more
desirable, for a woman, than the latter far more frequently cultivated
one. The one is a sedative, the other an acute stimulant to the nervous
system. The one is a perfectly independent and always to be commanded
occupation; the other imperatively demands an instrument, utters an
audible challenge to attention, and must either command solitude or
disturb any society not inclined to become an audience. The one
cultivates habits of careful, accurate observation of nature, and
requires patient and precise labor in reproducing her models; the other
appeals powerfully to the imagination and emotions, and charms almost in
proportion as it excites its votaries. With regard to natural aptitude,
the most musical of nations--the German--shows by the impartial training
of its common schools how universal it considers a certain degree of
musical capacity.
I received your note, for I cannot honor the contents of your last
with the name of a letter (whatever title the shape and quantity of
the paper it was written on may claim).
I have made up my mind to let you make up yours, without urging you
further upon the subject; but I must reply to one thing. You say to
me, could you bring with you a strip of sea-shore, a corner of blue
sky, or half a dozen waves, you would not hesitate. Allow my to say
that whereas by the sea-side or under a bright sky your society
enhances the pleasure derived from them, I now desire it (not
having these) as delightful in itself, increasing my enjoyment in
the beauties of nature, and compensating for their absence. But I
have done; only if Mrs. K---- has held out a false hope to me, she
is ferocious and atrocious, and that is all, and so pray tell her.
Mr. Murray has been kind enough to say he will publish my very
original compositions, and I am preparing them for him. I am sorry
to say I have heard nothing from my brother; _of_ him I have heard,
for his whereabout is known and talked of--so much so, indeed, that
my father says further concealment is at once useless and
ridiculous. I may therefore now tell you that he is at this moment
in Spain, trying to levy troops for the cause of the
constitutionalists. I need not tell you, dearest H----, how much I
regret this, because you will know how deeply I must disapprove of
it. I might have thought any young man Quixotic who thus mistook a
restless, turbulent spirit, eager to embrace a quarrel not his own,
for patriotism and self-devotion to a sacred cause; but in my
brother, who had professed aims and purposes so opposed to tumult
and war and bloodshed, it seems to me a subject of much more
serious regret. Heaven only knows what plans he has formed for the
future! His present situation affords anxiety enough to warrant our
not looking further in anticipation of vexation, but even if the
present be regarded with the best hope of success in his
undertaking, the natural consideration must be, as far as he is
concerned, "What follows?" It is rather a melancholy consideration
that such abilities should be wasted and misapplied. Our own
country is in a perilous state of excitement, and these troubled
times make politicians of us all. Of course the papers will have
informed you of the risings in Kent and Sussex; London itself is in
an unquiet state that suggests the heaving of a volcano before an
eruption. It is said that the Duke of Wellington must resign; I am
ignorant, but it appears to me that whenever he does it will be a
bad day's work for England. The alarm and anxiety of the
aristocracy is extreme, and exhibits itself, even as I have had
opportunity of observing in society, in the half-angry,
half-frightened tone of their comments on public events. If one did
not sympathize with their apprehensions, their mode of expressing
them would sometimes be amusing.
F. A. K.
Thank you for your delicious French comic song; you should come to
London to hear how admirably I sing it.
Mrs. K---- was a Miss Dawson, sister of the Right Honorable George
Dawson, and the wife of an eminent member of the Irish bar. She was a
woman of great mental cultivation and unusual information upon subjects
which are generally little interesting to women. She was a passionate
partisan of Owen the philanthropist and Combe the phrenologist, and
entertained the most sanguine hopes of the regeneration of the whole
civilized world through the means of the theories of these benevolent
reformers. Except Queen Elizabeth, of glorious memory, I do not think a
woman can have existed who combined the love of things futile and
serious to the same degree as Mrs. K----. Her feminine taste for
fashionable society and the frivolities of dress, together with her
sober and solid studies of the gravest sort and her devotion to the
speculations of her friends Owen and Combe, constituted a rare union of
contrasts. She was a remarkable instance of the combination exemplified
by more than one eminent person of her sex, of a capacity for serious
study, solid acquirements, and enlightened and liberal views upon the
most important subjects, with a decided inclination for those more
trifling pursuits supposed to be the paramount interests of the female
mind. She was the dear friend of my dear friend Miss S----, and
corresponded with her upon the great subject of social progress with a
perfect enthusiasm of theoretical reform.
CHAPTER XVIII.
My dear H----, tell me how you bore the journey and the cold, and
how dear A---- fared on the road; how you found all your people,
and how the dell and the sea are looking. Write to me very _soon_
and _very_ long. You have let several stitches fall in one of the
muffetees you knit for me, and it is all running to ruin; I must
see and pick them up at the theater on Thursday night. You have
left all manner of things behind you; among others, Channing's two
essays; I will keep all your property honestly for you, and shall
soon have time to read those essays, which I very much wish to do.
Dall sends her best love to both, and all; and Henry bids me tell
A---- that the name of the Drury Lane pantomime is "Harlequin and
Davy Jones, or Mother Carey's Chickens." Ours is yet a secret; he
will write her all about it.
[My friend Miss S---- held (without having so eloquently advocated) the
theory of her and my friend Miss Cobbe, of the possible future existence
of animals; such animals at any rate as had formed literally a precious
part of the earthly existence of their owners, and in whom a certain
sense, so nearly resembling conscience, is developed, by their obedience
and attachment to the superior race, that it is difficult to consider
them unmoral creatures. Perhaps, however, if the choice were given our
four-footed friends to share our future prospects and present
responsibility, they might decline the offer, "Thankfu' they werena'
men, but dogs."]
You say you wish to know what we did on Christmas Day. I'll tell
you. In the morning I went to church, after which I came home and
copied "The Star of Seville" till dinner-time. After dinner my
mother, who had proposed spending the evening at our worthy
pastor's, Mr. Sterky's, finding my father disinclined for that
exertion, remained at home and went to sleep; my father likewise,
Dall likewise, Henry likewise; and I copied on at my play till
bedtime: _voil�_. On Monday, contrary to my expectation, I had to
play Euphrasia before the pantomime. You know we were to spend
Christmas Eve at my aunt Siddons's; we had a delightful evening and
I was very happy. My aunt came down from the drawing-room (for we
danced in the dining-room on the ground floor) and sat among us,
and you cannot think how nice and pretty it was to see her
surrounded by her clan, more than three dozen strong; some of them
so handsome, and many with a striking likeness to herself, either
in feature or expression. Mrs. Harry and Cecy danced with us, and
we enjoyed ourselves very much; I wished for dear A----
exceedingly. Wednesday we dined at Mrs. Mayow's.
[My mother's dear friend, Mrs. Mayow, was the wife of a gentleman in a
high position in one of our Government offices. She was a West Indian
creole, and a singularly beautiful person. Her complexion was of the
clear olive-brown of a perfectly Moorish skin, with the color of a
damask rose in her cheeks, and lips as red as coral. Her features were
classically symmetrical, as was the soft, oval contour of her face; her
eyes and hair were as black as night, and the former had a halo of fine
lashes of the most magnificent length. She never wore any head-dress but
a white muslin turban, the effect of which on her superb dark face was
strikingly handsome, and not only its singularity but its noble and
becoming simplicity distinguished her in every assembly, amid the
various fantastic head-gear of each successive Parisian "fashion of the
day." As a girl she had been remarkably slender, but she grew to an
enormous size, without the increased bulk of her person disfiguring or
rendering coarse her beautiful face.]
Thursday I acted Lady Townley, and acted it abominably ill, and was
much mortified to find that Cecilia had got my cousin Harry to
chaperon her two boys to the play that night; because, as he never
before went to see me act, it is rather provoking that the only
time he did so I should have sent him to sleep, which he gallantly
assured me I did. I do not find cousins so much more polite than
brothers (one's natural born plagues). Harry's compliment to my
acting had quite a brotherly tenderness, I think. Friday, New
Year's Eve, we went to a ball at Mrs. G----'s, which I did not much
enjoy; and yesterday, New Year's Day, Henry and I spent the evening
at Mrs. Harry's. There was no one there but Cecy and her two boys,
and we danced, almost without stopping, from eight till twelve.
[The lads my cousin Cecilia called her boys were the two younger sons of
her brother George Siddons, Mrs. Siddons's eldest son, then and for many
years after collector of the port at Calcutta. These lads and their
sisters were being educated in England, and were spending their
Christmas holidays with their grandmother, Mrs. Siddons. The youngest of
these three schoolboys, Henry, was the father of the beautiful Mrs.
Scott-Siddons of the present day. It was in the house of my cousin
George Siddons, then one of the very pleasantest and gayest in Calcutta,
that his young nephew Harry, son of his sister-in-law, my dear Mrs.
Harry Siddons, was to find a home on his arrival in India, and
subsequently a wife in Harriet, the second daughter of the house.]
I have not seen Mr. Murray again; I conclude he is out of town just
now.
We have made all inquiries about poor dear A----'s trunk, and of
course, as soon as we hear of it, it will be sent to her; I am very
sorry for her, poor dear little child, but I advise her, when she
does get them, to put on each of her new dresses for an hour by
turns, and sit opposite the glass in them. Good-by, dear H----.
Your affectionate
F. K.
I have only time to say two words to you, for I am in the midst of
preparations for our flight to Brighton, to-morrow. Thank you for
your last letter; I liked it very much, and will answer it at
length when we come back to town.
Mr. Murray has got my MSS., but I have yet heard nothing about it
from him. My fire is not in that economical invention, the
"miserable basket" [an iron frame fitting inside our common-sized
grate to limit the extravagant consumption of coal], but well
spread out in the large comfortable grate; yet I am sitting with my
door and windows all wide open; it is a lovely, bright, mild spring
day. I do not lose my time any more of a morning watching the fire
kindling, for the housemaid lights it before I get out of bed, so
my poetry and philosophy are robbed of a most interesting subject
of meditation.
With regard to what you say about A----, I do not know that I
expected her to love, though I was sure she would admire, nature;
she is very young yet, and her quick, observant mind and tendency
to wit and sarcasm make human beings more amusing, if not more
interesting, to her than inanimate objects. It is not the beauty of
nature alone, as it appeals merely to our senses, that produces
that passionate love for it which induces us to prefer communion
with it to the intercourse of our fellows. The elevated trains of
thought, and the profound and sublime aspirations which the
external beauty of the world suggests, draw and rivet our mind and
soul to its contemplation, and produce a sort of awful sense of
companionship with the Unseen, which cannot, I think, be an
experience of early youth. For then the volatile, vivid, and
various spirit, with its sympathizing and communicative tendency,
has a strong propensity to spend itself on that which can return
its value in like commodity; and exchange of thought and feeling is
a preponderating desire and necessity, and human fellowship and
intercourse is naturally attractive to unworn and unwearied human
nature. I suppose the consolatory element in the beautiful
_un_human world in which we live is not often fully appreciated by
the young, they want comparatively so little of it; youth is itself
so thoroughly its own consoler. Some years hence, I dare say A----
will love both the sea and sky better than she does now. To a
certain degree, too, the love of solitude, which generally
accompanies a deep love for nature, is a kind of selfishness that
does not often exist in early life.
Kiss A---- for me, and do not be unhappy, my dear, for you will
soon see me again; and in the meantime I advise you, as you think
my picture so much more agreeable than myself, to console yourself
with that. Good-by.
Your affectionate
FANNY.
I think I remember that Shelley had this passion for fire-gazing; it's a
comfort to think that whatever he could _say_, he could never _see_ more
enchanting things in his grate than I have in mine; but indeed, even for
Shelley, the motions and the colors of flames are unspeakable.
We found my mother tolerably well, and Henry, who had been out
skating all day, in great beauty and high spirits. I must now tell
you what I had not room for when I wrote you those few lines in
A----'s letter.
It seems (though he would not say whence they derived them) that
they were plentifully supplied with funds, with which they
purchased and manned a vessel destined to carry arms and ammunition
to Spain for the purposes of the revolutionists. This ship they put
under command of an experienced _smuggler_, and it was actually
leaving the mouth of the Thames with Sterling and Mr. Trench on
board it, bound for Spain, when by order of Lord Aberdeen it was
stopped. Our two young gentlemen jumped into a boat and made their
escape, but Mr. Sterling, hearing that government threatened to
proceed against the captain of the captured vessel, came forward
and owned it as his property, and exonerated the man, as far as he
could, from any share of the blame attaching to an undertaking in
which he was an irresponsible instrument. Matters were in this
state, with a prosecution pending over John Sterling, when the
ministry was changed, and nothing further has been done or said by
government on the subject since.
Of our home circle I have nothing to tell you. My father, Dall, and
I had a very delightful day on Saturday at Brighton. After a lovely
day's journey, we arrived there on Friday. Our companion in the
coach luckily happened to be a son of Dr. Burney's, who was an old
and intimate friend of my father's, and they discoursed together
the whole way along, of all sorts of events and people: of my uncle
John and my aunt Siddons, in their prime; of Mrs. Jordan and the
late king; of the present one, Harlow, Lawrence, and innumerable
other folk of note and notoriety. Among other things they had a
long discussion on the subject of Hamlet's feigned or--as my father
maintains and I believe--real madness; all this formed a very
amusing accompaniment to the history of Sir Launcelot du Lac, which
I was reading with much delight when I was not listening to their
conversation.
We got into Brighton at half-past four, and had just time to dine,
dress, and go to the theater, where we were to act "The Stranger."
The house was very full indeed, but my reception was not quite what
I had expected; for whether they were disappointed in my dress
(Mrs. Haller being traditionally clothed in droopacious white
muslin, and I dressing her in gray silk, which is both stiff and
dull looking, as I think it should be), or whether, which I think
still more likely, they were disappointed in my "personal
appearance," which, as you know, is neither tragical nor heroic, I
know not, but I thought their welcome rather, cold; but the truth
is, I believe my London audience spoils me for every other.
However, the play went off admirably, and I believe everybody was
satisfied, not excepting the manager, who assured me so full and
_enthusiastic_ a house had not been seen in Brighton for many
years.
Our rooms at the inn [the old Ship was then _the_ famous Brighton
hotel] looked out upon the sea, but it was so foggy when we entered
Brighton that although I perceived the _motion_ of the waves
through the mist that hung over them, their color and every object
along the shore was quite indistinct. The next morning was
beautiful. Dall and I ran down to the beach before breakfast; there
are no sands, unluckily, but we stood ankle-deep in the shingles,
watching the ebbing tide and sniffing the sweet salt air for a long
time with great satisfaction. After breakfast we rehearsed "The
Provoked Husband," and from the theater proceeded to take a walk.
All this was very fine, but still it was streets and houses; and
there were crowds of gay people parading up and down, looking as
busy about nothing and as full of themselves as if the great awful
sea had not been close beside them. In fact, I was displeased with
the levity of their deportment, and the contrast of all that
fashionable frivolity with the grandest of all natural objects
seemed to me incongruous and discordant; and I was so annoyed at
finding myself by the sea-side and _yet_ still surrounded with all
the glare and gayety of London, that I think I wished myself at the
bottom of the cliff and Brighton at the bottom of the sea. However,
we walked on and on, beyond the Parade, beyond the town, till we
had nothing but the broad open downs to contrast with the broad
open sea, and then I was completely happy. I gave my muff to my
father and my fur tippet to Dall, for the sun shone powerfully on
the heights, and I walked and ran along the edge of the cliffs,
gazing and pondering, and enjoying the solemn sound and the
brilliant sight, and the nervous excitement of a slight sense of
fear as I peeped over at the depth below me. From this diversion,
however, my father called me away, and, to console me for not
allowing me to run the risk of being dashed to pieces, offered to
run a race up a small hill with me, and beat me hollow.
Our house at the theater at night was very fine; and now, as you
are perhaps tired of Brighton, you will not be sorry to get home
with me; but pray communicate the end of our "land sorrow" to
A----. We were to start for London Sunday morning at ten [a journey
of six hours by coach, now of less than two by rail], and my father
had taken three inside places in a coach, which was to call for us
at our inn. I ran down to the beach and had a few moments alone
there. It was a beautiful morning, and the fishing boats were one
by one putting out into the calmest sleepy sea. I longed to ask to
be taken on board one of them; but I was summoned away to the
coach, and found on reaching it that, the fourth place being
occupied by a sickly looking woman with a sickly looking child
nearly as big as herself in her lap, my father, notwithstanding the
coldness of the morning, had put himself on the outside. I went to
sleep; from which blessed refuge of the wretched I was recalled by
a powerful and indescribable smell, which, seizing me by the nose,
naturally induced me to open my eyes. Mother and daughter were each
devouring a lump of black, strong, greasy plum cake; as a specific,
I presume, against (or for?) sickness in a stage-coach.
I received your letter dated the 7th the night before last, and
purposed ending this long epistle yesterday evening with an answer
to it, but was prevented by having to go with my mother to dine
with Mrs. L----, that witty woman and more than middle-aged beauty
you have heard me speak of. I was repaid for the exertion I had not
made very willingly, for I had a pleasant dinner. This lady has a
large family and very large fortune, which at her death goes to her
eldest son, who is a young man of enthusiastically religious views
and feelings; he has no profession or occupation, but devotes
himself to building chapels and schools, which he himself
superintends with unwearied assiduity; and though he has never
taken orders, he preaches at some place in the city, to which
crowds of people flock to hear him; none of which is at all
agreeable to his mother, whose chief anxiety, however, is lest some
one of the fair Methodists who attend his exhortations should
admire his earthly expectations as much as his heavenly prospects,
and induce this young apostle to marry her for her soul's sake; all
which his mother told mine, with many lamentations over the godly
zeal of her "serious" son, certainly not often made with regard to
young men who are likely to inherit fine fortunes and estates. One
of this young gentleman's sisters is strongly imbued with the same
religious feeling, and I think her impressions deepened by her very
delicate state of health. I am much attracted by her gentle manner,
and the sweet, serious expression of her face, and the earnest tone
of her conversation; I like her very much.
Good-by, dear H----; write me along "thank you" for this longest of
mortal letters, and believe that I am your ever affectionate
F. A. K.
MONDAY, 27th.
DEAR H----,
Horace Twiss has been out of town, and I have been obliged to delay
this for a frank. You will be glad, I know, to hear that "Fazio"
has made a great hit. Milman is coming to see me in it to-night; I
wish I could induce him to write me such another part.
We are over head and ears in the mire of chancery again. The
question of the validity of our--the great theater--patents is now
before Lord Brougham; I am afraid they are not worth a farthing. I
am to hear from Mr. Murray some day this week; considering the
features of my handwriting, it is no wonder it has taken him some
time to become acquainted with the MSS.
All our occupations have been of a desultory and exciting kind, and
all our doings and sayings have been made matter of surprise and
admiring comment; of course, therefore, we are disinclined for
anything like serious or solid study, and naturally conclude that
sayings and doings so much admired and wondered at _are_ admirable
and astonishing. A---- is possessed of strong powers of ridicule,
and the union of this sarcastic vein with a vivid imagination seems
to me unusual; their prey is so different that they seldom hunt in
company, I think. When I heard that she was reading "Mathilde"
(Madame Cottin), I was almost afraid of its effect upon her. I
remember at school, when I was her age, crying three whole days and
half nights over it; but I sadly overrated her sensibility. Her
letter to me contained a summary, abusive criticism of "Mathilde"
as a book, and ended by presenting to me one of those ludicrous
images which I abhor, because, while they destroy every serious or
elevated impression, they are so absurd that one cannot defend
one's self from the "idiot laughter" they excite, and leave one no
associations but grinning ones with one's romantic ideals. Her
letters are very clever and make me laugh exceedingly, but I am
sorry she has such a detestation of Mrs. Marcet and natural
philosophy. As for her letters being shown about, I am not sorry
that my indiscretion has relieved A---- from a restraint which, if
it had only been disagreeable to her, would not have mattered so
much, but which is calculated to destroy all possibility of free
and natural correspondence, and inevitably renders letters mere
compositions and their young authors vain and pretentious. I have
always thought the system a bad one, for under it, if a girl's
letters are thought dull, she feels as if she had made a failure,
and if they are laughed at and passed from hand to hand with her
knowledge, the result is much worse; and in either case, what she
writes is no longer the simple expression of her thoughts and
feelings, but samples of wit, ridicule, and comic fancy which are
to be thought amusing and clever by others than those to whom they
are addressed.
You say that we love intellect, but I do not agree with you; I do
not think intellect excites love. I do not even think that it
increases our love for those we do love, though it adds admiration
to our affection. I certainly do admire intellect immensely; mental
power, which allied to moral power, goodness, is a force to uphold
the universe.
Since you say that my perpetual quotation of that stupid song, "Old
Wilson is Dead," worries you, I will renounce my delight in teasing
you with it. The love of teasing is, of course, only a base form of
the love of power. Mr. Harness and I had a long discussion the
other night about the Cenci; he maintains your opinion, that the
wicked old nobleman was absolutely mad; but I argued the point
stoutly for his sanity, and very nearly fell into the fire with
dismay when I was obliged to confess that if he was not mad, then
his actuating motive was simply _the love of power_. Do you know
that that play was sent over by Shelley to England with a view to
Miss O'Neill acting Beatrice Cenci? If it were ever possible that
the piece could be acted, I should think an audience might be half
killed with the horror of that entrance of Beatrice when she
describes the marble pavement sliding from beneath her feet.
Did my mother tell you in her note that Milman was at the play the
other night, and said I had made Bianca exactly what he intended? I
wish he would write another tragedy. I think perhaps he will, from
something Murray said the other day. That eminent publisher still
has my MSS. in his possession, but you know I can take things
easily, and I don't feel anxious about his decision. I act in
"Fazio" Monday and Wednesday, and Friday and Saturday Mrs. Beverley
and Belvidera at Brighton.
F. A. K.
CHAPTER XIX.
I am not familiar with all that Burns has written; I have read his
letters, and know most of his songs by heart. His passions were so
violent that he seems to me in that respect to have been rather a
subject for poetry than a poet; for though a poet should perhaps
have a strongly passionate nature, he should also have power enough
over it to be able to observe, describe, and, if I may so say,
experimentalize with it, as he would with the passions of others. I
think it would better qualify a man to be a poet to be able to
perceive rather than liable to feel violent passion or emotion. May
not such things be known of without absolute experience? What is
the use of the poetical imagination, that lower inspiration, which,
like the higher one of faith, is the "evidence of things not seen"?
Troubled and billowy waters reflect nothing distinctly on their
surface; it is the still, deep, placid element that gives back the
images by which it is surrounded or that pass over its surface. I
do not of course believe that a good man is necessarily a poet, but
I think a devout man is almost always a man with a poetical
imagination; he is familiar with ideas which are essentially
sublime, and in the act of adoration he springs to the source of
all beauty through the channel by which our spirits escape most
effectually from their chain, the flesh, and their prison-house,
the world, and rise into communion with that supreme excellence
from which they originally emanated and into whose bosom they will
return. I cannot now go into all I think about this, for I have so
many other things to talk about. Since I began this letter I have
heard a report that John is a prisoner, that he has been arrested
and sent to Madrid. Luckily I do not believe a word of this; if he
has rendered himself obnoxious to the British authorities in
Gibraltar they may have locked him up for a week or two there, and
I see no great harm in that; but that he should have been delivered
to the Spaniards and sent to Madrid I do not believe, because I
know that the whole revolutionary party is going to pieces, and
that they have neither the power nor the means to render themselves
liable to such a disagreeable distinction. We expect him home every
day. Only conceive, dear H----, the ill-fortune that attends us: my
father, or rather the theater, is involved in six lawsuits I He and
my mother are neither of them quite well; anxiety naturally has
much share in their indisposition.
I do not know whether you have seen anything in the papers about a
third theater; we have had much anxiety, vexation, and expense
about it, but I have no doubt that Mr. Arnold will carry the
question. The great people want a plaything for this season, and
have set their hearts upon that. I acted Belvidera to my father's
Jaffier at Brighton; you cannot imagine how great a difference it
produced in my acting. Mrs. Siddons and Miss O'Neill had a great
advantage over me in their tragic partners. Have you heard that Mr.
Hope, the author of "Anastasius," is just dead? That was a
wonderfully clever book, of rather questionable moral effects, I
think; the same sort of cynical gloom and discontent which pervade
Byron's writings prevail in that; and I thought it a pity, because
in other respects it seems a genuine book, true to life and human
nature. A few days before I heard of his death, Mr. Harness was
discussing with me a theory of Hope's respecting the destiny of the
human soul hereafter. His notion is that all spirit is after death
to form but one whole spiritual existence, a sort of _lumping_
which I object to. I should like always to be able to know myself
from somebody else.
I _do_ read the papers sometimes, dear H----, and, whenever I do, I
wonder at you and all sensible people who make a daily practice of
it; the proceedings of Parliament would make one angry if they did
not make one so sad, and some of the debates would seem to me
laughable but that I know they are lamentable.
FANNY.
Free-trade had hardly uttered a whisper yet upon any subject of national
importance when the monopoly of theatrical property was attacked by Mr.
Arnold, of the English Opera House, who assailed the patents of the two
great theaters, Covent Garden and Drury Lane, and demanded that the
right to act the legitimate drama (till then their especial privilege)
should be extended to all British subjects desirous to open play-houses
and perform plays. A lawsuit ensued, and the proprietors of the great
houses--"his Majesty's servants," by his Majesty's royal patent since
the days of the merry monarch--defended their monopoly to the best of
their ability. My father, questioned before a committee of the House of
Commons upon the subject, showed forth the evils likely, in his opinion,
to result to the dramatic art and the public taste by throwing open to
unlimited speculation the right to establish theaters and give
theatrical representations. The great companies of good sterling actors
would be broken up and dispersed, and there would no longer exist
establishments sufficiently important to maintain any large body of
them; the best plays would no longer find adequate representatives in
any but a few of the principal parts, the characters of theatrical
pieces produced would be lowered, the school of fine and careful acting
would be lost, no play of Shakespeare's could be decorously put on the
stage, and the profession and the public would alike fare the worse for
the change. But he was one of the patented proprietors, one of the
monopolists, a party most deeply interested in the issue, and therefore,
perhaps, an incompetent judge in the matter. The cause went against us,
and every item of his prophecy concerning the stage has undoubtedly come
to pass. The fine companies of the great theaters were dissolved, and
each member of the body that together formed so bright a constellation
went off to be the solitary star or planet of some minor sphere. The
best plays no longer found decent representatives for any but one or two
of their first parts; the pieces of more serious character and higher
pretension as dramatic works were supplanted by burlesques and parodies
of themselves; the school of acting of the Kembles, Young, the Keans,
Macready, and their contemporaries, gave place to no school at all of
very clever ladies and gentlemen, who certainly had no pretension to act
tragedy or declaim blank verse, but who played low comedy better than
high, and lowest farce best of all, and who for the most part wore the
clothes of the sex to which they did not belong. Shakespeare's plays
_all_ became historical, and the profession was decidedly the worse for
the change; I am not aware, however, that the public has suffered much
by it.
I had a visit from J---- F---- the other day, and she stayed an
hour, talking very pleasantly, and a little after your fashion; for
she propounded the influence of matter over mind and the
impossibility of preserving a sound and vigorous spirit in a weak
and suffering body. I am blessed with such robust health that my
moral shortcomings, however anxious I may be to refer them to
side-ache, toothache, or any other ache, I am afraid deserve small
mercy on the score of physical infirmity; but she, poor thing, I am
sorry to say, suffers much and often from ill health, and
complained, with evident experience, of the difficulty of
preserving a cheerful spirit and an even temper in the dreary
atmosphere of a sick-room.
When she was gone I set to work with "Francis I.," and corrected
all the errors in the meter which Mr. Milman had had the kindness
to point out to me. I then went over Beatrice with my mother, who
takes infinite pains with me and seems to think I profit. She went
to the play with Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Edward Romilly, who is a
daughter of Mrs. Marcet, and, owing to A----'s detestation of that
learned lady's elementary book on natural philosophy, I was very
desirous they should not meet one another, though certainly, if any
of Mrs. Marcet's works are dry and dull, it is not this charming
daughter of hers.
Lady Dacre and her daughter, Mrs. Sullivan, and Mr. James Wortley
were in the orchestra, and came after the play to supper with us,
as did Mr. and Mrs. Fitzgerald, Mrs. Edward Romilly, and Mr.
Harness: a very pleasant party, for the ladies are all clever and
charming, and got on admirably together.
I miss you dreadfully, my dear H----, and I do wish you could come
back to us when Dorothy has left you; but I know that cannot be,
and so I look forward to the summer time, the sunny time, the rosy
time, when I shall be with you again at Ardgillan.
Sally and Lizzy Siddons came and sat with me for some time; they
seem well and cheerful. Their mother, they said, was not very well;
how should she be! though, indeed, regret would be selfish. Her son
is gone to fulfill his own wishes in pursuing the career for which
he was most fit; he will find in his uncle George Siddons's house
in Calcutta almost a second home. Sally, whom you know I respect
almost as much as love, said it was surprising how soon they had
learned to accept and become reconciled to their brother's
departure. Besides all our self-invoked aids of reason and
religion, nature's own provision for the need of our sorrows is
more bountiful and beneficent than we always perceive or
acknowledge. No one can go on living upon agony; we cannot grieve
for ever if we would, and our most strenuous efforts of
self-control derive help from the inevitable law of change, against
which we sometimes murmur and struggle as if it wronged our
consistency in sorrow and constancy in love. The tendency to _heal_
is as universal as the liability to _smart_. You always speak of
change with a sort of vague horror that surprises me. Though all
things round us are for ever shifting and altering, and though we
ourselves vary and change, there is a supreme spirit of
steadfastness in the midst of this huge unrest, and an abiding,
unshaken, immovable principle of good guiding this vanishing world
of fluctuating atoms, in whose eternal permanence of nature we
largely participate, and our tendency toward and aspiration for
whose perfect stability is one of the very causes of the progress,
and therefore mutability, of our existence. Perhaps the most
painful of all the forms in which change confronts us is in the
increased infirmities and diminished graces which after long
absence we observe in those we love; the failure of power and
vitality in the outward frame, the lessened vividness of the
intellect we have admired, strike us with a sharp surprise of
distress, and it is startling to have revealed suddenly to us, in
the condition of others, how rapidly, powerfully, and unobservedly
time has been dealing with ourselves. But those who believe in
eternity should be able to accept time, and the ruin of the altar
from which the flame leaps up to heaven signifies little.
Did you read Horace Twiss's speech on the Reform Bill? Every one
seems to think it was excellent, whether they agree with his
opinions and sentiments or not. I saw by the paper, to-day, that an
earthquake had been felt along the coast near Dover. A---- says the
world is coming to an end. We certainly live in strange times, but
for that matter so has everybody that ever lived.
[In the admirable letter of Lord Macaulay to Mr. Ellis, describing the
division of the house on the second reading of the Reform Bill, given in
Mr. Trevelyan's life of his uncle, the great historian says Horace
Twiss's countenance at the liberal victory looked like that of a "damned
soul." If, instead of a lost soul, he had said poor Horace looked like a
_lost seat_, he would have been more accurate, if not as picturesque.
Mr. Twiss sat for one of Lord Clarendon's boroughs, and the passage of
the Reform Bill was sure to dismiss him from Parliament; a serious thing
in his future career, fortunes, and position.]
I must now tell you what I do next week, that you may know where to
find me. Monday, the king goes to hear "Cinderella," and I have a
holiday and go with my mother to a party at Dr. Granville's.
Tuesday, I act Belvidera, and _afterward_ go to Lady Dacre's; I do
this because, as I fixed the day myself for her party, not
expecting to act that night, I cannot decently get off. Lady
Macdonald's dinner party is put off; so until Saturday, when I play
Beatrice, I shall spend my time in practicing, reading, writing
(_not_ arithmetic), walking, working cross-stitch, and similar
young-ladyisms.
FANNY.
Lady Eleanor Butler and Miss Ponsonby, the famous friends of Llangollen,
kept during the whole life they spent together under such peculiar
circumstances a daily diary, so minute as to include the mention not
only of every one they saw (and it must be remembered that their
hermitage was a place of fashionable pilgrimage, as well as a hospitable
refuge), but also _what they had for dinner every day_--so I have been
told.
The little box on the stage I have alluded to in this letter as Mrs.
Siddons's was a small recess opposite the prompter's box, and of much
the same proportions, that my father had fitted up for the especial
convenience of my aunt Siddons whenever she chose to honor my
performances with her presence. She came to it several times, but the
draughts in crossing the stage were bad, and the exertion and excitement
too much for her, and her life was not prolonged much after my coming
upon the stage.
Lord and Lady Dacre were among my kindest friends. With Lady Dacre I
corresponded from the beginning of our acquaintance until her death,
which took place at a very advanced age. She was strikingly handsome,
with a magnificent figure and great vivacity and charm of manner and
conversation. Her accomplishments were various, and all of so masterly
an excellence that her performances would have borne comparison with the
best works of professional artists. She drew admirably, especially
animals, of which she was extremely fond. I have seen drawings of groups
of cattle by her that, without the advantage of color, recall the life
and spirit of Rosa Bonheur's pictures. She was a perfect Italian
scholar, having studied enthusiastically that divine tongue with the
enthusiast Ugo Foscolo, whose patriotic exile and misfortunes were
cheered and soothed by the admiring friendship and cordial kindness of
Lord and Lady Dacre. Among all the specimens of translation with which I
am acquainted, her English version of Petrarch's sonnets is one of the
most remarkable for fidelity, beauty, and the grace and sweetness with
which she has achieved the difficult feat of following in English the
precise form of the complicated and peculiar Italian prosody. These
translations seem to me as nearly perfect as that species of literature
can be. But the most striking demonstrations of her genius were the
groups of horses which Lady Dacre modeled from nature, and which, copied
and multiplied in plaster casts, have been long familiar to the public,
without many of those who know and admire them being aware who was their
author. It is hardly possible to see anything more graceful and
spirited, truer at once to nature and the finest art, than these
compositions, faithful in the minutest details of execution, and highly
poetical in their entire conception. Lady Dacre was the finest female
rider and driver in England; that is saying, in the world. Had she lived
in Italy in the sixteenth century her name would be among the noted
names of that great artistic era; but as she was an Englishwoman of the
nineteenth, in spite of her intellectual culture and accomplishments she
was _only_ an exceedingly clever, amiable, kind lady of fashionable
London society.
Of Lord Dacre it is not easy to speak with all the praise which he
deserved. He inherited his title from his mother, who had married Mr.
Brand of the Hoo, Hertfordshire, and at the moment of his becoming heir
to that estate was on the point of leaving England with Colonel Talbot,
son of Lord Talbot de Malahide, to found with him a colony in British
Canada, where Arcadia was to revive again, at a distance from all the
depraved and degraded social systems of Europe, under the auspices of
these two enthusiastic young reformers. Mr. Brand had completed his
studies in Germany, and acquired, by assiduous reading and intimate
personal acquaintance with the most enlightened and profound thinkers of
the philosophical school of which Kant was the apostle, a mental
cultivation very unlike, in its depth and direction, the usual
intellectual culture of young Englishmen of his class.
His serious early German studies had elevated and enlarged his mind far
beyond the usual level and scope of the English country gentleman's
brain, and freed him from the peculiarly narrow class prejudices which
it harbors. He was an enlightened liberal, not only in politics but in
every domain of human thought; he was a great reader, with a wide range
of foreign as well as English literary knowledge. He had exquisite
taste, was a fine connoisseur and critic in matters of art, and was the
kindliest natured and mannered man alive.
At his house in Hertfordshire, the Hoo, I used to meet Earl Grey; his
son, the present earl (then Lord Howick); Lord Melbourne; the Duke of
Bedford; Earl Russell (then Lord John), and Sidney and Bobus Smith--all
of them distinguished men, but few of them, I think, Lord Dacre's
superiors in mental power. Altogether the society that he and Lady Dacre
gathered round them was as delightful as it was intellectually
remarkable; it was composed of persons eminent for ability, and
influential members of a great world in which extraordinary capacity was
never an excuse for want of urbanity or the absence of the desire to
please; their intercourse was charming as well as profoundly interesting
to me.
During a conversation I once had with Lady Dacre about her husband, she
gave me the following extract from the writings of Madame Huber, the
celebrated Ther�se Heyne, whose first husband, Johann Georg Forster, was
one of the delegates which sympathizing Mentz sent to Paris in 1793, to
solicit from the revolutionary government the favor of annexation to the
French republic.
"In the year 1790 Forster had attached to himself and introduced in his
establishment a young Englishman, who came to Germany with the view of
studying the German philosophy [Kant's system] in its original language.
He was nearly connected with some of the leaders of the then opposition.
He was so noble, so simple, that each virtue seemed in him an instinct,
and so stoical in his views that he considered every noble action as the
victory of self-control, and never felt himself good enough. The friends
[Huber and Forster] who loved him with parental tenderness sometimes
repeated with reference to him the words of Shakespeare--
But, thanks to fate, he has falsified that prophecy; the youth is grown
into manhood; he lives, unclaimed by any mere political party, with the
more valuable portion of his people, and satisfies himself with being a
good man so long as circumstances prevent him from acting in his sense
as a good citizen. Our daily intercourse with this youth enabled us to
combine a knowledge of English events with our participation in the
proceedings on the Continent. His patriotism moderated many of our
extreme views with regard to his country; his estimate of many
individuals, of whom from his position he possessed accurate knowledge,
decided many a disputed point amongst us; and the tenderness which we
all felt for this beloved and valued friend tended to produce justice
and moderation in all our conflicts of opinion."[A]
Lady Dacre had had by her first marriage, to Mr. Wilmot, an only child,
the Mrs. Sullivan I have mentioned in this letter, wife of the Reverend
Frederick Sullivan, Vicar of Kimpton. She was an excellent and most
agreeable person, who inherited her mother's literary and artistic
genius in a remarkable degree, though her different position and less
leisurely circumstances as wife of a country clergyman and mother of a
large family, devoted to the important duties of both callings, probably
prevented the full development and manifestation of her fine
intellectual gifts. She was a singularly modest and diffident person,
and this as well as her more serious avocations may have stood in the
way of her doing justice to her uncommon abilities, of which, however,
there is abundant evidence in her drawings and groups of modeled
figures, and in the five volumes of charming stories called "Tales of a
Chaperon," and "Tales of the Peerage and the Peasantry," which were not
published with her name but simply as edited by Lady Dacre, to whom
their authorship was, I think, generally attributed. The mental gifts of
Lady Dacre appear to be heirlooms, for they have been inherited for
three generations, and in each case by her female descendants.
Miss Joanna Baillie was a great friend of Mrs. Siddons's, and wrote
expressly for her the part of Jane de Montfort, in her play of "De
Montfort." My father and mother had the honor of her acquaintance, and I
went more than once to pay my respects to her at the cottage in
Hampstead where she passed the last years of her life.
The peculiar plan upon which she wrote her fine plays, making each of
them illustrate a single passion, was in great measure the cause of
their unfitness for the stage. "De Montfort," which has always been
considered the most dramatic of them, had only a very partial success,
in spite of its very great poetical merit and considerable power of
passion, and the favorable circumstance that the two principal
characters in it were represented by the eminent actors for whom the
authoress originally designed them. In fact, though Joanna Baillie
selected and preferred the dramatic form for her poetical compositions,
they are wanting in the real dramatic element, resemblance to life and
human nature, and are infinitely finer as poems than plays.
But the desire and ambition of her life had been to write for the stage,
and the reputation she achieved as a poet did not reconcile her to her
failure as a dramatist. I remember old Mr. Sotheby, the poet (I add this
title to his name, though his title to it was by some esteemed but
slender), telling me of a visit he had once paid her, when, calling him
into her little kitchen (she was not rich, kept few servants, and did
not disdain sometimes to make her own pies and puddings), she bade him,
as she was up to the elbows in flour and paste, draw from her pocket a
paper; it was a play-bill, sent to her by some friend in the country,
setting forth that some obscure provincial company was about to perform
Miss Joanna Baillie's celebrated tragedy of "De Montfort." "There,"
exclaimed the culinary Melpomene, "there, Sotheby, I am so happy! You
see my plays can be acted somewhere!" Well, too, do I remember the tone
of half-regretful congratulation in which she said to me, "Oh, you lucky
girl--you lucky girl; you are going to have your play acted!" This was
"Francis I.," the production of which on the stage was a bitter
annoyance to me, to prevent which I would have given anything I
possessed, but which made me (vexed and unhappy though I was at the
circumstance on which I was being congratulated) an object of positive
envy to the distinguished authoress and kind old lady.
Hatred that has a reasonable cause may cease with its removal. Supposing
Antonio to have become a converted Jew, or to have withdrawn all
opposition to Shylock's usury and compensated him largely for the losses
he had caused him by it, and to have expressed publicly, with the utmost
humility, contrition for his former insults and sincere promises of
future honor, respect, and reverence, it is possible to imagine Shylock
relenting in a hatred of which the reasons he assigned for it no longer
existed. But from the moment he says he has _no_ reason for his hatred
other than the insuperable disgust and innate enmity of an antagonistic
nature--the deadly, sickening, physical loathing that in rare instances
affects certain human beings toward others of their species, and toward
certain animals--then there are no calculable bounds to the ferocity of
such a blind instinct, no possibility of mitigating, by considerations
of reflection or feeling, an inherent, integral element of a morbid
organization. And Shakespeare, in giving this aspect to the last
exhibition of Shylock's vindictiveness, cancels the original appeal to
possible sympathy for his previous wrongs, and presents him as a
dangerous maniac or wild beast, from whose fury no one is safe, and whom
it is every one's interest to strike down; so that at the miserable
Jew's final defeat the whole audience gasps with a sense of unspeakable
relief. Perhaps, too, the master meant to show--at any rate he has
shown--that the deadly sin of hatred, indulged even with a cause, ends
in the dire disease of causeless hate and the rabid frenzy of a maniac.
Bryan Waller Procter, dear Barry Cornwall--beloved by all who knew him,
even his fellow-poets, for his sweet, gentle disposition--had married
(as I have said elsewhere) Anne Skepper, the daughter of our friend,
Mrs. Basil Montague. They were among our most intimate and friendly
acquaintance. Their house was the resort of all the choice spirits of
the London society of their day, her pungent epigrams and brilliant
sallies making the most delightful contrast imaginable to the cordial
kindness of his conversation and the affectionate tenderness of his
manner; she was like a fresh lemon--golden, fragrant, firm, and
wholesome--and he was like the honey of Hymettus; they were an
incomparable compound.
The play which I spoke of as his, in my last letter, was Ford's "White
Devil," of which the notorious Vittoria Corrombona, Duchess of
Bracciano, is the heroine. The powerful but coarse treatment of the
Italian story by the Elizabethan playwright has been chastened into
something more adapted to modern taste by Barry Cornwall; but, even with
his kindred power and skillful handling, the work of the early master
retained too rough a flavor for the public palate of our day, and very
reluctantly the project of bringing it out was abandoned.
About the same time that this play of Barry Cornwall's was given up, a
long negotiation between Miss Mitford and the management of Covent
Garden came to a conclusion by her withdrawal of her play of "I�ez de
Castro," a tragedy founded upon one of the most romantic and picturesque
incidents in the Spanish chronicle. After much uncertainty and many
difficulties, the project of bringing it out was abandoned. I remember
thinking I could do nothing with the part of the heroine, whose corpse
is produced in the last act, seated on the throne and receiving the
homage of the subjects of her husband, Pedro the Cruel--a very ghastly
incident in the story, which I think would in itself have endangered the
success of the play. My despondency about the part of Inez had nothing
to do with the possible effect of this situation, however, but was my
invariable impression with regard to every new part that was assigned to
me on first reading it. But I am sure Miss Mitford had no cause to
regret that I had not undertaken this; the success of her play in my
hands ran a risk such as her fine play of "Rienzi," in those of Mr.
Young or Mr. Macready, could never have incurred; and it was well for
her that to their delineation of her Roman tribune, and not mine of her
Aragonese lady, her reputation with the public as a dramatic writer was
confided.
I have mentioned in this last letter a morning visit from Chantrey, the
eminent sculptor, who was among our frequenter. His appearance and
manners were simple and almost rustic, and he was shy and silent in
society, all which may have been results of his obscure birth and early
want of education. It was to Sir Francis Chantrey that my father's
friends applied for the design of the beautiful silver vase which they
presented to him at the end of his professional career. The sculptor's
idea seemed to me a very happy and appropriate one, and the design was
admirably executed; it consisted of a simple and elegant figure of
Hamlet on the cover of the vase, and round it, in fine relief, the
"Seven Ages of Man," from Jacques's speech in "As You Like It;" the
whole work was very beautiful, and has a double interest for me, as that
not only of an eminent artist, but a kind friend of my father's.
A---- says you seem younger to her than I do; which, considering
your fourteen years' seniority over me, is curious; but the truth
is, though she does not know it, I am still _too young_; I have not
lived, experienced, and suffered enough to have acquired the
self-forgetfulness and gentle forbearance that make us good and
pleasant companions to our _youngers_.
F.A. KEMBLE.
Why are you not here to kiss and congratulate me? I am so proud and
happy! Mr. Murray has given me four hundred and fifty pounds for my
play alone! the other things he does not wish to publish with it.
Only think of it--was there ever such publishing munificence! My
father has the face to say _it is not enough!_ but looks so proud
and pleased that his face alone shows it is _too much_ by a great
deal; my mother is enchanted, and I am so happy, so thankful for
this prosperous result of my work, so delighted at earning so much,
so surprised and charmed to think that what gave me nothing but
pleasure in the doing has brought me such an after-harvest of
profit; it is too good almost to be true, and yet it is true.
But I am happy and have been much excited from another reason
to-day. Richard Trench, John's dear friend and companion, is just
returned from Spain, and came here this morning to see us. I sat
with him a long while. John is well and in good spirits. Mr. Trench
before leaving Gibraltar had used every persuasion to induce my
brother to return with him, and had even got him on board the
vessel in which they were to sail, but John's heart failed him at
the thought of forsaking Torrijos, and he went back. The account
Mr. Trench gives of their proceedings is much as I imagined them to
have been. They hired a house which they denominated Constitution
Hall, where they passed their time smoking and drinking ale, John
holding forth upon German metaphysics, which grew dense in
proportion as the tobacco fumes grew thick and his glass grew
empty. You know we had an alarm about their being taken prisoners,
which story originated thus: they had agreed with the
constitutionalists in Algeciras that on a certain day the latter
were to _get rid_ of their officers (murder them civilly, I
suppose), and then light beacons on the heights, at which signal
Torrijos and his companions, among them our party who were lying
armed on board a schooner in the bay, were to make good their
landing. The English authorities at Gibraltar, however, had note of
this, and while they lay watching for the signal they were boarded
by one of the Government ships and taken prisoners. The number of
English soldiers in whose custody they found themselves being,
however, inferior to their own, they agreed that if the beacons
made their appearance they would turn upon their guards and either
imprison or kill them. But the beacons were never lighted; their
Spanish fellow-revolutionists broke faith with them, and they
remained ingloriously on board until next day, when they were
ignominiously suffered to go quietly on shore again.
CHAPTER XX.
I must now tell you what I am going to do, that you may know where
to find me: to-morrow, I go to a private morning concert with my
mother; in the evening, I act Beatrice, and after the play all
sorts of people are coming here to supper. On Monday, I act Fazio;
Wednesday, we dine at Lady Macdonald's; Thursday, I act Mrs.
Haller; and Saturday, Beatrice again. I have not an idea what will
be done for my benefit; we are all devising and proposing. I myself
want them to bring out Massinger's "Maid of Honor;" I think it
beautiful.
Now, dear H----, I must leave off, and sign my tickets. We all send
our loves to you: my mother tells me not to let you forget her; she
says she is afraid you class her with Mrs. John Kemble. If ever
there were two dissimilar human beings, it is those two. Ever your
affectionate
FANNY.
My dear H----, shut your eyes while you read this, because if you
don't, they'll never shut again. Constance is what I am to play for
my benefit. I am horribly frightened; it is a cruel weight to lay
upon my shoulders: however, there is nothing for it but doing my
best, and leaving the rest to fate. I almost think now I could do
Lady Macbeth better. I am like poor little Arthur, who begged to
have his tongue cut off rather than have his eyes put out; that
last scene of Constance--think what an actress one should be to do
it justice! Pray for me.
And so the Poles are crushed! what a piteous horror! Will there
never come a day of retribution for this!
Mrs. Jameson came and sat with me some time yesterday evening, and
read me a good deal of her work on Shakespeare's female characters;
they are very pleasing sketches--outlines--but her criticism and
analysis are rather graceful than profound or powerful. Tuesday
next my mother and I spend the evening with her; Wednesday, we dine
at Sir John Macdonald's; Thursday, I act Mrs. Haller; Friday, we
have an evening party at home; Saturday, I play Beatrice; Monday,
Constance (come up for it!); Tuesday, we dine with Lord Melbourne;
and this is as much of the book of fate as is unrolled to me at
present.
Mrs. Harry came here to-day; it is the first time I have seen her
this month; she is looking wretchedly, and talks of returning to
Edinburgh. My first feeling at hearing this was joy that I shall
not go there and find the face and voice for ever associated with
Edinburgh in my heart away from it. But I am not really glad, for
it is the failure of some plan of hers which obliges her to do
this. I have the loves of all to give you, and they are all very
troublesome, crying, "Give mine separately," "Don't lump mine;" so
please take them each separately and singly. I have been sobbing my
heart out over Constance this morning, and act Fazio to-night,
which is hard work.
Your affectionate
F.
You say it's a horrid thing one can't "try on one's body" and
choose such a one as would suit one; but do you consider your body
accidental, as it were, or do you really think we could do better
for ourselves than has been done for us in this matter? After all,
our souls get used to our bodies, and in some fashion alter and
shape them to fit; then you know if we had different bodies we
should be different people and not our _same selves_ at all; if I
had been tall, as I confess I in my heart of hearts wish I were,
what another moral creature should I have been.
You urge me to work, dear H----, and study my profession, and were
I to say I hate it, you would retort, "You do it, therefore take
pains to do it well." And so I do, as well as I can; I have been
studying Constance with my father, and rubbed off some of the rough
edges of it a little.
Dear H----, this is Wednesday, the 23rd; Monday and King John and
my Constance are all over; but I am at this moment still so _deaf
with nervousness_ as not to hear the ticking of my watch when held
to one of my ears; the other side of my head is not deaf any longer
_now_; but on Monday night I hardly heard one word I uttered
through the whole play. It is rather hard that having endeavored
(and succeeded wonderfully, too) in possessing my soul in peace
during that trial of my courage, my nervous system should give way
in this fashion. I had a knife of pain sticking in my side all
through the play and all day long, Monday; as I did not hear myself
speak, I cannot tell you anything of my performance. My dress was
of the finest pale-blue merino, all folds and drapery like my
Grecian Daughter costume, with an immense crimson mantle hung on my
shoulders which I could hardly carry. My head-dress was exactly
copied from one of my aunt's, and you cannot imagine how curiously
like her I looked. My mother says, "You have done it better than I
believe any other girl of your age would do it." But of course that
is not a representation of Constance to satisfy her, or any one
else, indeed. You know, dear H----, what my own feeling has been
about this, and how utterly incapable I knew myself for such an
undertaking; but you did not, nor could any one, know how
dreadfully I suffered from the apprehension of failure which my
reason told me was well founded. I assure you that when I came on
the stage I felt like some hunted creature driven to bay; I was
really half wild with terror. The play went off admirably, but I
lay, when my part was over, for an hour on my dressing-room floor,
with only strength enough left to cry. Your letter to A---- revived
me, and just brought me enough to life again to eat my supper,
which I had not felt able to touch, in spite of my exhaustion and
great need of it; when, however, I once began, my appetite
justified the French proverb and took the turn of voracity, and I
devoured like a Homeric hero. I promised to tell you something of
our late dinner at Lord Melbourne's, but have left myself neither
space nor time. It was very pleasant, and I fell out of my love for
our host (who, moreover, is absorbed by Mrs. Norton) and into
another love with Lord O----, Lord T----'s son, who is one of the
most beautiful creatures of the male sex I ever saw; unluckily, he
does not fulfill the necessary conditions of your theory, and is
neither as old nor as decrepit as you have settled the nobleman I
am to marry is to be; so he won't do.
FANNY.
I am truly sorry for M----'s illness, just at the height of all her
gay season gayeties, too; it is too provoking to have one's tackle
out of order and lie on the beach with such a summer sea sparkling
before one. I congratulate L---- on her father's relenting and
canceling his edict against waltzing and galloping. And yet, I am
always _rather_ sorry when a determination of that sort, firmly
expressed, is departed from. Of course our views and opinions, not
being infallible, are liable to change, and may not unreasonably be
altered or weakened by circumstances and the more enlightened
convictions of improved powers and enlarged experience, but it is
as well, therefore, for our own sakes, not to promulgate them as if
they were Persian decrees. One can step gracefully down from a
lesser height, where one would fall from a greater. But with young
people generally, I think, to retreat from a position you have
assumed is to run the risk of losing some of their consideration
and respect; for they have neither consciousness of their own
frailty, nor charity for the frailty of others, nor the wisdom to
perceive that a resolution may be better broken than kept; and
though perhaps themselves gaining some desired end by the yielding
of their elders, I believe any indulgence so granted (that is,
after being emphatically denied) never fails to leave on the
youthful mind an impression of want of judgment or determination in
those they have to do with.
A----'s guitar is a beauty, and wears a broad blue scarf and has a
sweet, low, soft voice. Mr. Pickersgill is going to paint my
portrait; it is a present Major Dawkins makes my father and mother,
but I do wish they would leave off trying to take my picture. My
face is too bad for anything but nature, and never was intended for
_still_ life. The intention, however, is very kind, and the offer
one that can scarcely be refused. I wish you would come and keep me
awake through my sittings.
Good-by, and God bless you, my dear H----. I look forward to our
meeting at Ardgillan, three months hence, with delight, and am
affectionately yours,
F. A. K.
A---- and I begin our riding lessons on Wednesday next. We have got
pretty dark-brown habits and red velvet waistcoats, and shall look
like two nice little robin-redbreasts on horseback; all I dread is
that she may be frightened to death, which might militate against
her enjoyment, perhaps.
What you say about my brother John is very true; and though my
first care is for his life, my next is for his happiness, which I
believe more likely to be secured by his remaining in the midst of
action and excitement abroad, than in any steady pursuit at home.
My benefit was not as good as it ought to have been; it was not
sufficiently advertised, and it took place on the night of the
reading of the Reform Bill, which circumstance was exceedingly
injurious to it.
You will be glad to hear that "The Maid of Honor" was entirely
successful; that it will have a "great run," or bring much money to
the theater, I doubt. It is a _cold_ play, according to the present
taste of audiences, and there are undoubted defects in its
construction which in the fastidious judgment of our critics weigh
down its sterling beauties.
It has done me great service, and to you I may say that I think it
the best thing I have acted. Indeed, I like my own performance of
it so well (which you know does not often happen to me), that I beg
you will make A---- tell you something about it. I was beautifully
dressed and looked very nice.
We have heard nothing of John for some time now, and my mother has
ceased to express, if not to feel, anxiety about him, and seems
tranquil at present; but after all she has suffered on his account,
it is not, perhaps, surprising that she should subside into the
calm of mere exhaustion from that cruel over-excitement.
Our appeal before the Lords, after having been put off once this
week, will, in consequence of the threatened dissolution of
Parliament, be deferred _sine die_, as the phrase is. Oh, what
weary work this is for those who are tremblingly waiting for a
result of vital importance to their whole fate and fortune! Thank
Heaven, I am liberally endowed with youth's peculiar power and
privilege of disregarding future sorrow, and unless under the
immediate pressure of calamity can keep the anticipation of it at
bay. My journal has become a mere catalogue of the names of people
I meet and places I go to. I have had no time latterly for anything
but the briefest possible registry of my daily doings. Mrs. Harry
Siddons has taken a lodging in this street, nearly opposite to us,
so that I have the happiness of seeing her rather oftener than I
have been able to do hitherto; the girls come over, too; and as we
have lately taken to acting charades and proverbs, we spend our
evenings very pleasantly together.
I showed that part of your last letter which concerned my aunt Dall
to herself, because I knew it would please her, and so it did; and
she bids me tell you that she values your good-will and esteem
extremely, and should do still more if you did not _misbestow so
much of them on me_.
To-morrow Sheridan Knowles dines with us, to read a new play he has
written, in which I am to act. In the evening we go to Lady Cork's,
Sunday we have a dinner-party here, Monday I act Camiola, Tuesday
we go to Mrs. Harry's, Wednesday I act Camiola, and further I know
not. Good-by, dear; ever yours,
F. A. K.
I was at this time sitting for my picture to Mr. Pickersgill, with whose
portrait of my father in the part of Macbeth I have mentioned my
mother's comically expressed dissatisfaction. Our kind friend, Major
Dawkins, wished to give my father and mother a good portrait of me, and
suggested Mr. Pickersgill, a very eminent portrait-painter, as the
artist who would be likely to execute it most satisfactorily. Mr.
Pickersgill, himself, seemed very desirous to undertake it, and greatly
as my sittings interfered with my leisure, of which I had but little, it
was impossible under the circumstances that I should refuse, especially
as he represented that if he succeeded, as he hoped to do, his painting
me would be an advantage to him; portraits of public exhibitors being of
course recognizable by the public, and, if good, serving the purpose of
advertisements. Unluckily, Mrs. Jameson proposed accompanying me, in
order to lighten by her very agreeable conversation the tedium of the
process. Her intimate acquaintance with my face, with which Mr.
Pickersgill was not familiar, and her own very considerable artistic
knowledge and taste made her, however, less discreet in her comments and
suggestions with regard to his operations than was altogether pleasant
to him; and after exhibiting various symptoms of impatience, on one
occasion he came so very near desiring her to mind her own business,
that we broke off the sitting abruptly; and the offended painter adding,
to my dismay, that it was quite evident he was not considered equal to
the task he had undertaken, our own attitude toward each other became so
constrained, not to say disagreeable, that on taking my leave I declined
returning any more, and what became of Mr. Pickersgill's beginning of me
I do not know. Perhaps he finished it by memory, and it is one of the
various portraits of me, _qui courent le monde_, for some of which I
never sat, which were taken either from the stage or were mere efforts
of memory of the artists; one of which, a head of Beatrice, painted by
my friend Mr. Sully, of Philadelphia, was engraved as a frontispiece to
a small volume of poems I published there, and was one of the best
likenesses ever taken of me.
The success of "The Maid of Honor" gave me great pleasure. The sterling
merits of the play do not perhaps outweigh the one insuperable defect of
the despicable character of the hero; one can hardly sympathize with
Camiola's devotion to such an idol, and his unworthiness not only
lessens the interest of the piece, but detracts from the effect of her
otherwise very noble character. The performance of the part always gave
me great pleasure, and there was at once a resemblance to and difference
from my favorite character, Portia, that made it a study of much
interest to me. Both the women, young, beautiful, and of unusual
intellectual and moral excellence, are left heiresses to enormous
wealth, and are in exceptional positions of power and freedom in the
disposal of it. Portia, however, is debarred by the peculiar nature of
her father's will from bestowing her person and fortune upon any one of
her own choice; chance serves her to her wish (she was not born to be
unhappy), and gives her to the man she loves, a handsome, extravagant
young gentleman, who would certainly have been pronounced by all of us
quite unworthy of her, until she proved him worthy by the very fact of
her preference for him; while Camiola's lover is separated from her by
the double obstacle of his royal birth and religious vow.
Another night, as I was leaving the stage, after the play, I met behind
the scenes my dear friend Mr. Harness, with old Mr. Sotheby; both were
very kind in their commendation of my performance, but the latter kept
repeating with much emphasis, "But how do you contrive to make yourself
look so beautiful?" a rather equivocal compliment, which had a peculiar
significance; my beauty, or rather my lack of it, being a sore subject
between us, as I had made it the reason for refusing to act Mary Stuart
in his play of "Darnley," assuring him I was too ugly to look the part
properly; so upon this accusation of making myself "look beautiful," I
could only reply, with much laughing, "Good-looking enough for Camiola,
but not for Queen Mary."
My mother is confined to her bed with a bad cold, or she would have
answered your note herself; but, being disabled, she has
commissioned me to do so, and desires me to say that both my father
and herself object to my going anywhere without some member of my
family as chaperon; and as this is a general rule, the infringement
of it in a particular instance, however much I might wish it, would
be better avoided, for fear of giving offense where I should be
glad to plead the prohibition. She bids me add that she fears she
cannot go out to-morrow, but that some day soon, at an early hour,
she hopes to be able to accompany us both to the British Gallery.
Will you come to us on Sunday evening? You see what is hanging over
me for Thursday next; shall you go to see me?
Yours affectionately,
F. A. K.
I did not, and do not, at all question the good judgment of my parents
in not allowing me to go into society unaccompanied by one or the other
of themselves. The only occasion on which I remember feeling very
rebellious with regard to this rule was that of the coronation of King
William and Queen Adelaide, for which imposing ceremony a couple of
peers' tickets had been very kindly sent us, but of which I was unable
to avail myself, my father being prevented by business from escorting
me, my mother being out of town, and my brother's countenance and
protection not being, in their opinion, adequate for the occasion. So
John went alone to the abbey, and say the fine show, and my peer's
ticket remained unused on my mantelpiece, a constant suggestion of the
great disappointment I had experienced when, after some discussion, it
was finally determined that he was too young to be considered a proper
chaperon for me. Dear me! how vexed I was! and how little charmed with
my notoriety, which was urged as the special reason for my being hedged
round with the utmost conventional decorum!
I have but two minutes to say two words to you, in answer to your
very kind note. Both my mother and myself went out of town, not to
recover from absolute indisposition, but to recruit strength. I am
sorry to say she is far from well now, however; but as I think her
present suffering springs from cold, I hope a few warm days will
remove it. I am myself very well, except a bad cough which I have
had for some time, and a very bad side-ache, which has just come
on, and which, if I had time in addition to the inclination which I
have, would prevent me from writing much more at present. I envy
you your time spent in the country; the first days of spring and
last of autumn should never be spent between brick houses and stone
pavements. I am truly sorry for the anxieties you have undergone;
your father is, I trust, quite recovered; and as to your dear baby
(Mrs. Jameson's niece), remember it is but beginning to make you
anxious, and will continue to do so as long as it lives, which is a
perfect Job's comforter, is it not? The story of your old man
interested me very much; I suppose a parent can love all through a
whole lifetime of absence: but do you think there can be a very
strong and enduring affection in a child's bosom for a parent
hardly known except by hearsay? I should doubt it. I must leave off
now, and remain,
I was not at home yesterday afternoon when you sent to our house,
and all the evening was so busy studying that I had not time to
answer your dispatch. Thank you for your last year's letter; it is
curious to look back, even to so short a time, and see how the past
affected one when it was the present. I remember I was very happy
and comfortable at Bath, the critics notwithstanding. Thank you,
too, for your more recent epistle. I am grateful for, and gratified
by, your minute observation of my acting. I am always thankful for
your criticisms, even when I do not quite agree with them; for I
know that you are always kindly anxious that I should not destroy
my own effects, which I believe I not unfrequently do. With regard
to my action, unless in passages which necessarily require a
specific gesture, such as, "You'll find them at the Marchesa
Aldabella's," I never determine any one particular movement; and,
of course, this must render my action different almost every time;
and so it depends upon my own state of excitement and inspiration,
so to speak, whether the gesture be forcible or not. My father
desires me to send you Retsch's "Hamlet;" it is his, and I request
you not to judge it too hastily: I have generally heard it abused,
but I think in many parts it has very great merit. I am told that
Retsch says he has no fancy for illustrating "Romeo and Juliet,"
which seems strange. One would have thought he would have delighted
in portraying those lovely human beings, whom one always imagines
endowed with an outward and visible form as youthful, beautiful,
and full of grace, as their passion itself was. Surely the balcony,
the garden, and grave-yard scenes, would have furnished admirable
subjects for his delicate and powerful hand. Is it possible that he
thinks the thing beyond him? I must go to work. Good-by.
Of Lady Ellesmere I have already said that she was a sort of idol of
mine in my girlhood, when first I knew her, and to the end of her life
continued to be an object of my affectionate admiration. She was
excellently conscientious, true, and upright; of a direct and simple
integrity of mind and character which her intercourse with the great
world to which she belonged never impaired, and which made her singular
and unpopular in the artificial society of English high life. Her
appearance always seemed to me strikingly indicative of her mind and
character. The nobly delicate and classical outline of her face, her
pure, transparent complexion, and her clear, fearless eyes were all
outward and visible expressions of her peculiar qualities. Her
beautifully shaped head and fine profile always reminded me of the
Pallas Athene on some antique gem, and the riding cap with the visor,
which she first made fashionable, increased the classical resemblance.
She was curiously wanting in imagination, and I never heard anything
more comically literal than her description of her own utter
_destitution_ of poetical taste. After challenging in vain her
admiration for the great poets of our language, I quoted to her, not
without misgiving, some charmingly graceful and tender lines, addressed
to herself by her husband, and asked her if she did not like those: "Oh
yes," replied she, "I think they are very nice, but you know I think
they would be just as nice _if they were not verses_; and whenever I
hear any poetry that I like at all, I always think how much better I
should like it if it was prose;" an explanation of her taste that
irresistibly reminded me of the delightful Frenchman's sentiment about
spinach: "Je n'aime pas les �pinards, et je suis si content que je ne
les aime pas! parce que si je les aimais, j'en mangerais beaucoup, et je
ne peux pas les souffrir."
The whole thing amused me very much, and mixed up, as it soon came to be
for me, with an element of real and serious interest, kept up the
atmosphere of nervous excitement in which I was plunged from morning
till night.
The play which Sheridan Knowles came to read to us was "The Hunchback."
He had already produced several successful dramas, of which the most
striking was Virginius, in which Mr. Macready performed the Roman father
so finely. The play Knowles now read to us had been originally taken by
him to Drury Lane in the hope and expectation that Kean would accept the
principal man's part of Master Walter. Various difficulties and
disagreements arising, however, about the piece, the author brought it
to my father; and great was my emotion and delight in hearing him read
it. From the first moment I felt sure that it would succeed greatly, and
that I should be able to do justice to the part of the heroine, and I
was anxious with my father for its production. The verdict of the Green
Room was not, however, nearly as favorable as I had expected; and I was
surprised to find that when the piece was read to the assembled company
it was received with considerable misgiving as to its chance of success.
CHAPTER XXI.
Lady Cork's great age did not appear to interfere with her enjoyment of
society, in which she lived habitually. I remember a very comical
conversation with her in which she was endeavoring to appoint some day
for my dining with her, our various engagements appearing to clash. She
took up the pocket-book where hers were inscribed, and began reading
them out with the following running commentary: "Wednesday--no,
Wednesday won't do; Lady Holland dines with me--naughty lady!--won't do,
my dear. Thursday?" "Very sorry, Lady Cork, we are engaged." "Ah yes, so
am I; let's see--Friday; no, Friday I have the Duchess of C----, another
naughty lady; mustn't come then, my dear. Saturday?" "No, Lady Cork, I
am very sorry--Saturday, we are engaged to Lady D----." "Oh dear, oh
dear! improper lady, too! but a long time ago, everybody's forgotten all
about it--very proper now! quite proper now!"
I do not know that Lady Cork's reputation for beauty ever equaled that
she had for wit, but when I knew her, at upward of ninety, she was
really a very comely old woman. Her complexion was still curiously fine
and fair, and there was great vivacity in her eyes and countenance, as
well as wonderful liveliness in her manner. Her figure was very slight
and diminutive, and at the parties at her own house she always was
dressed entirely in white--in some rich white silk, with a white bonnet
covered with a rich blonde or lace vail on her head; she looked like a
little old witch bride. I recollect a curious scene my mother described
to me, which she witnessed one day when calling on Lady Cork, whom she
had known for many years. She was shown into her dressing-room, where
the old lady was just finishing her toilet. She was about to put on her
gown, and remaining a moment without it showed my mother her arms and
neck, which were even then still white and round and by no means
unlovely, and said, pointing to her maid, "Isn't it a shame! she won't
let me wear my gowns low or my sleeves short any more." To which the
maid responded by throwing the gown over her mistress's shoulders,
exclaiming at the same time, "Oh, fie, my lady! you ought to be ashamed
of yourself to talk so at your age!"--a rebuke which the nonagenarian
beauty accepted with becoming humility.
FANNY KEMBLE.
Thank you for the book you were so good as to send me. I have read
that which concerns the Cenci in it, and think Leigh Hunt's
reflections on the story and tragedy very good. I am glad you were
at the play last night, because I thought I acted well--at least, I
tried to do so. I stayed the first act of the new after-piece, and
was rather amused by it. I do not know how the ladies'
"inexpressibles" might affect the fortunes of the second act, but I
liked all their gay petticoats in the first, extremely. The weather
is not very propitious for us; we start to-morrow at nine. I send
you the only copy of Sophocles I can lay my hand on this morning.
Yours ever truly,
F. A. KEMBLE.
I had only lately read Shelley's great tragedy, and Mrs. Jameson had
been so good as to lend me various notices and criticisms upon it. The
hideous subject itself is its weak point, and his selection of it one
cause for doubting Shelley's power as a dramatic writer. Everything else
in the terrible play suggests the probable loss his death may have been
to the dramatic literature of England. At the same time, the tenor of
all his poems denotes a mind too unfamiliar with human life and human
nature in their ordinary normal aspects and conditions for a good writer
of plays. His metaphysical was almost too much for his poetical
imagination, and perhaps nothing between the morbid horror of that Cenci
story and the ideal grandeur of the Greek Prometheus would have excited
him to the dramatic handling of any subject.
His translation from Calderon's "El Magico Prodigioso," and his bit of
the Brocken scene from "Faust," are fine samples of his power of
dramatic style; he alone could worthily have translated the whole of
"Faust;" but I suppose he really was too deficient in the vigorous
flesh-and-blood vitality of the highest and healthiest poetical genius
to have been a dramatist. He could not deal with common folk nor handle
common things; humor, that great _tragic_ element, was not in him; the
heavens and all their clouds and colors were his, and he floated and
hovered and soared in the ethereal element like one native to it. Upon
the firm earth his foot wants firmness, and men and women as they are,
are at once too coarse and complex, too robust and too infinitely
various for his delicate, fine, but in some sense feeble handling.
I fear I am going to disappoint you, and 'tis with real regret that
I do so, but I have been acting every night almost for the last
month, and when to-day I mentioned my project of spending this my
holiday evening with you, both my aunt and my father seemed to
think that in discharging my debt to you I was defrauding nearer
and older creditors; and suggested that my mother, who really sees
but little of me now, might think my going out to-night unkind. I
cannot, therefore, carry out my plan of visiting you, and beg that
you will forgive my not keeping my promise this evening. I am
moreover so far from well that my company would hardly give you
much pleasure, nor could I stay long if I came, for early as it is
my head is aching for its pillow already.
F.A. KEMBLE.
My mother bids me say that you certainly will suppose she is mad,
or else _Mother Hubbard's dog_; for when you called she was
literally ill in bed, and this evening she cannot have the pleasure
of receiving you, because she is engaged out, here in our own
neighborhood, to a very quiet tea. She bids me thank you very much
for the kindness of your proposed visit, and express her regret at
not being able to avail herself of it. If you can come on Thursday,
between one and two o'clock, I shall be most happy to see you.
Thank you very much for Lamb's "Dramatic Specimens;" I read the
scene you had copied from "Philaster" directly; how fine it is! how
I should like to act it! Mr. Harness has sent me the first volume
of the family edition of the "Old Plays." I think sweeping those
fine dramas clean is a good work that cannot be enough commended.
What treasures we possess and make no use of, while we go on acting
"Gamesters" and "Grecian Daughters," and such poor stuff! But I
have no time for ecstasies or exclamations. Yours ever most truly,
F.A. KEMBLE.
I have said that hardly any new part was ever assigned to me that I did
not receive with a rueful sense of inability to what I called "do
anything with it." Julia in "The Hunchback," and Camiola in "The Maid of
Honor," were among the few exceptions to this preparatory attack of
despondency; but those I in some sort choose myself, and all my other
characters were appointed me by the management, in obedience to whose
dictates, and with the hope of serving the interests of the theater, I
suppose I should have acted Harlequin if I had been ordered to do so.
The fact is that except in broad farce, where the principal ingredient
being humor, animal spirits and a grotesque imagination, which are of no
particular age, come strongly into play, comedy appears to me decidedly
a more mature and complete result of dramatic training than tragedy. The
effect of the latter may, as I myself exemplified, be tolerably achieved
by force of natural gifts, aided but little by study; but a fine
comedian _must_ be a fine artist; his work is intellectual, and not
emotional, and his effects address themselves to the critical judgment
and not the passionate sympathy of an audience. Tact, discretion, fine
taste, are quite indispensable elements of his performance; he must be
really a more complete actor than a great tragedian need be. The
expression of passion and emotion appears to be an interpretation of
nature, and may be forcibly rendered sometimes with but little beyond
the excitement of its imaginary experience on the actor's own
sensibility; while a highly educated perfection is requisite for the
actor who, in a brilliant and polished representation of the follies of
society, produces by fine and delicate and powerful delineations the
picture of the vices and ridicules of a highly artificial civilization.
Good company itself is not unapt to be very good acting of high comedy,
while tragedy, which underlies all life, if by chance it rises to the
smooth surface of polite, social intercourse, agitates and disturbs it
and produces even in that uncongenial sphere the rarely heard discord of
a natural condition and natural expression of natural feeling.
From day to day I had read the reports and tried to reason with
regard to their probability, and to persuade my mother that we had
every cause for hoping the best; and it was really not until that
hope was realized that it seemed as if all my mental nerves and
muscles, braced to the resistance of calamity, had suddenly relaxed
and given way under the relief from all further apprehension of it.
I have kept much of my forebodings to myself, but they have been
constant and wretched enough, and my gratitude for this termination
of them is unspeakable.
Thank you for your account of your visit to Wroxton Abbey [the seat
of the Earl of Guilford]; it interested me very much; trees are not
to me, as they seem to be to you, the most striking and beautiful
of all natural objects, though I remember feeling a good deal of
pain at the cutting down of a particular tree that I was very fond
of.
F. A. K.
JOURNAL, 1831.
The Duchess of St. Albans was not without shrewd sense and some humor,
though entirely without education, and her sallies were not always in
the best possible taste. Her box at Covent Garden could be approached
more conveniently by crossing the stage than by the entrance from the
front of the house, and she sometimes availed herself of this easier
exit to reach her carriage with less delay. One night when my father had
been acting Charles II., the Duchess of St. Albans crossing her old
work-ground, the stage, with her two companions, the pretty Ladies
Beauclerc, stopped to shake hands with him (he was still in his stage
costume, having remained behind the scenes to give some orders), and
presenting him to her young ladies, said, "There, my dears; there's your
ancestor." I suppose in her earlier day she might not have been a bad
representative of their "ancestress."]
Dall was saying that she thought in two years of hard work we
might--that is, my father and myself--earn enough to enable us to
live in the south of France. This monstrous theater and its
monstrous liabilities will banish us all as it did my uncle Kemble.
But that I should be sorry to live so far out of the reach of
H----, I think the south of France would be a pleasant abode: a
delicious climate, a quiet existence, a less artificial state of
society and mode of life, a picturesque nature round me, and my own
dear ones and my scribbling with me--I think with all these
conditions I could be happy enough in the south of France or
anywhere.
The audience were very politically inclined, applied all the loyal
speeches with fervor, and called for "God save the King" after the
play. The town is illuminated, too, and one hopes and prays that
the "Old Heart of Oak" will weather these evil days, but sometimes
the straining of the tackle and the creaking of the timbers are
suggestive of foundering even to the most hopeful. The lords have
been vindicating their claim to a share in _common_ humanity by
squabbling like fishwives and all but coming to blows; the bishops
must have been scared and scandalized, lords spiritual not being
fighting men nowadays.
After the play Mr. Stewart Newton, the painter, supped with us--a
clever, entertaining man and charming artist; a little bit of a
dandy, but probably he finds it politic to be so. He told us some
comical anecdotes about the Royal Academy and the hanging of the
pictures.
The poor, dear king [William IV.], who it seems knows as much about
painting as _una vacca spagnuola_, lets himself, his family, and
family animals be painted by whoever begs to be allowed that honor.
So when the pictures were all hung the other day, somebody
discovered in a wretched daub close to the ceiling a portrait of
Lady Falkland [the king's daughter], and another of his Majesty's
favorite _cat_, which were immediately _lowered_ to a more
honorable position, to accomplish which desirable end, Sir William
Beechey [then president of the academy] removed some of his own
paintings. On a similar occasion during the late King George IV.'s
life, a wretched portrait of him having been placed in one of the
most conspicuous situations in the room, the Duke of Wellington and
sundry other distinguished _cognoscenti_ complimented Sir Thomas
Lawrence on it _as his_; this was rather a bitter pill, and must
have been almost too much for Lawrence's courtierly equanimity.
Hummel, Moscheles, Neukomm, Horsley, and Sir George Smart, and how
they did play! _� l'envi l'un de l'autre_. They sang, too, that
lovely glee, "By Celia's Arbor." The thrilling shudder which sweet
music sends through one's whole frame is a species of acute
pleasure, very nearly akin to pain. I wonder if by any chance there
is a point at which the two are one and the same thing!
_Tuesday, May 3d._--I wrote the fourth scene of the fifth act of my
play ["The Star of Seville"], and acted Lady Teazle for the first
time; the house was very good, and my performance, as I expected,
very bad; I was as flat as a lady amateur. I stayed after the play
to hear Braham sing "Tom Tug," which was a refreshment to my spirit
after my own acting; after I came home, finished the fifth act of
"The Star of Seville." "Joy, joy for ever, my task is done!" I have
not the least idea, though, that "heaven is won."
After dinner had only just time to go over my part and drive to the
theater. My dear, delightful Portia! The house was good, but the
audience dull, and I acted dully to suit them; but I hope my last
dress, which was beautiful, consoled them. What with sham business
and real business, I have had a busy day.
You see I have taken your advice, and, moreover, your paper, in
order that, in spite of the dispersion of Parliament and the
unattainability of franks, our correspondence may lose nothing in
bulk, though it must in frequency. I think you are behaving very
shabbily in not writing to me. Are you consulting your own
pleasure, or my purse? I dedicate so much of my income to purposes
which go under the head of "money thrown away;" don't you think the
cost of our correspondence may be added to that without seriously
troubling my conscience? What shall I say to you? "Reform" is on
the tip of my pen, and great as are our private matters of anxiety,
they scarcely outweigh in our minds the national interest that is
engrossing almost every thinking person throughout the country. You
know I am no politician, and my shallow causality and want of
adequate information alike unfit me from understanding, much less
discussing, public questions of great importance; but the present
crisis has aroused me to intense interest and anxiety about the
course events are taking. You can have no conception of the state
of excitement prevailing in London at this moment. The scene in the
House of Lords immediately preceding the dissolution the papers
will have described to you, though if the spectators and
participators in it may be believed, the tumult, the disorder, the
Billingsgate uproar on that occasion would not be easy to describe.
Lord Londonderry, it seems, thought that the days of _faust-recht_
had come back again, and I fancy more than he are of that opinion.
Dear H----, this is Saturday, the 14th, and 'tis now exactly three
weeks since I began this letter. I know not what you will think of
this, but, indeed, I am almost worn out with the ceaseless
occupations of one sort and another that are crowded into every
day, and the impossibility of commanding one hour's quiet out of
the twenty-four....
I called on my aunt Siddons the other day, and was shocked to find
her looking wretchedly ill; she has not yet got rid of the
erysipelas in her legs, and complained of intense headache. Poor
woman! she suffers dreadfully.... Cecilia's life has been one
enduring devotion and self-sacrifice. I cannot help wishing, for
both their sakes, that the period of her mother's infirmity and
physical decay may be shortened. I received a charming letter from
Theodosia yesterday, accompanying a still more charming basketful
of delicious flowers from dear Cassiobury--how much nicer they are
than human beings! I don't believe I belong to man (or woman) kind,
I like so many things--the whole material universe, for
example--better than what one calls one's fellow-creatures. She
told me that old Foster (you remember the old cottager in
Cassiobury Park) was dying. The news contrasted sadly with the
sweet, fresh, living blossoms that it came with. The last time that
I saw that old man I sat with him under his porch on a bright sunny
evening, talking, laughing, winding wreaths round his hat, and
singing to him, and that is the last I shall ever see of him. He
was a remarkable old man, and made a strong impression on my fancy
in the course of our short acquaintance. There was a strong and
vivid _remnant_ of mind in him surviving the contest with ninety
and odd years of existence; his manner was quaint and rustic
without a tinge of vulgarity; he is fastened to my memory by a
certain wreath of flowers and sunset light upon the brook that ran
in front of his cottage, and the smell of some sweet roses that
grew over it, and I shall never forget him.
I went to the opera the other night and saw Pasta's "Medea" for the
first time. I shall not trouble you with any ecstasies, because,
luckily for you, my admiration for her is quite indescribable; but
I have seen grace and majesty as perfect as I can conceive, and so
saying I close my account of my impressions. I fancied I was
slightly disappointed in Taglioni, whose dancing followed Pasta's
singing, but I suppose the magnificent tragical performance I had
just witnessed had numbed as it were my power of appreciation of
her grace and elegance, and yet she seemed to me like a _dancing
flower_; so you see I must have like her very much.
God bless you, dear; pray write to me very soon. I want some
consolation for not seeing you, nor the dear girls, nor the sea. I
could think of that fresh, sparkling, fresh looking, glassy sea
till I cried for disappointment.
Ever yours,
F. A. K.
The Miss Inverarity mentioned in this letter was a young Scotch singer
of very remarkable talent and promise, who came out at Covent Garden
just at this time. She was one of the tallest women I ever saw, and had
a fine soprano voice as high as herself, and sang English music well.
She was a very great favorite during the short time that I remember her
on the stage.
MY DEAREST H----,
_Sunday, May 15th._--Walked home from church with Mrs. Montagu and
Emily and Mrs. Procter, discussing among various things the
necessity for "preparation" before taking the sacrament. I suppose
the publican in the parable had not prepared his prayer, and I
suppose he would have been a worthy communicant.
They came in and sat a long time with my mother talking about Sir
Thomas Lawrence, of whom she spoke as a perfect riddle. I think he
was a dangerous person, because his experience and genius made him
delightfully attractive, and the dexterity of his flattery amounted
in itself to a fine art. The talk then fell upon the possibility of
friendship existing between men and women without sooner or later
degenerating, on one part or the other, into love. The French
rhymster sings--
My father came in while the ladies were still here, and Mrs.
Procter behaved admirably well about her husband's play....
Mrs. P---- called, and the talk became political and lugubriously
desponding, and I suddenly found myself inspired with a
contradictory vein of hopefulness, and became vehement in its
defense. In spite of all the disastrous forebodings I constantly
have, I cannot but trust that the spread of enlightenment and
general progress of intelligence in the people of this country--the
good judgment of those who have power and the moderation of those
who desire improvement--will effect a change without a _crash_ and
achieve reform without revolution.
_Thursday, 19th._--A bright sunny morning, the trees all bowing and
bending, and the water chafing and crisping under a fresh, strong,
but not cold, wind. I lost my way in the park and walked toward
Walton, thinking I was going to Weybridge, but, discovering my
mistake, turned about, and crossing the whole park came out upon
the common and our old familiar cricketing ground. I flew along the
dear old paths to our little cottage, but "Desolate was the
dwelling of Morna"--the house closed, the vine torn down, the grass
knee-deep, the shrubs all trailing their branches and blossoms in
disorderly luxuriance on the earth, the wire fence broken down
between the garden and the wood, the gate gone; the lawn was sown
with wheat, and the little pine wood one tangled maze, without
path, entrance, or issue. I ran up the mound to where John used to
stand challenging the echo with his bugle....
After lunch there was a general preparation for riding, and just as
we were all mounted it began to rain, and persevered till, in
despair, Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan rode off without our promised
escort. Mr. C---- arrived just as we had disequipped, and the
gentlemen all dispersed. Lady Francis and I sang together for some
time, and suddenly the clouds withholding their tears, she and I,
in one of those instants of rapid determination which sometimes
make or mar a fate, tore on our habits again, jumped on our horses,
and galloped off together over the park. We had an enchanting,
gray, soft afternoon, with now and then a rain-drop and sigh of
wind, like the last sob of a fit of crying. The earth smelt
deliriously fresh, and shone one glittering, sparkling, vivid
green. Our ride was delightful, and we galloped back just in time
to dress for dinner.
Dear A---- took the sacrament for the first time at the Swiss
church. On my return from church in the afternoon found Sir Ralph
and Lady Hamilton and Don Telesforo de Trueba. I like that young
Spaniard; he's a clever man. It was such fun his telling me all the
story of the Star of Seville, little imagining I had just
perpetrated a five-act tragedy on that identical subject.
About nine they were getting under way, and we presently began the
rehearsal. The dresses were all admirable; they (not the clothes,
but the clothes pegs) were all horribly frightened. I was a little
nervous and rather sad, and I felt strange among all those foolish
lads, taking such immense delight in that which gives me so very
little, dressing themselves up and acting. To be sure, "nothing
pleaseth but rare accidents." Mr. M----, our prompter, thought fit
by way of prompting to keep up a rumbling bass accompaniment to our
speaking by reading every word of the play aloud, as the singers
are prompted at the opera house, which did not tend much to our
assistance. Everything went very smoothly till an unlucky young
"mountaineer" rushed on the stage and terrified me and Hernani half
to death by _in_articulating some horrible intelligence of the
utmost importance to us, which his fright rendered quite
incomprehensible. He stood with his arms wildly spread abroad,
stuttering, sputtering, madly ejaculating and gesticulating, but
not one articulate word could he get out. I thought I should have
exploded with laughter, but as the woman said who saw the murder,
"I knew I mustn't (faint), and I didn't." With this trifling
exception it all went off very well. Either I was fagged with my
morning's ride or the constitution of the gallery is bad for the
voice; I never felt so exhausted with the mere effort of speaking,
and thought I should have died prematurely and in earnest in the
last scene, I was so tired. When it was over we adjourned with Lord
and Lady Francis and the whole _dramatis person�_ to Mrs. W----'s
magnificent house and splendid supper....
In the evening Mrs. Jameson, the Fitzhughs, R---- P----, and a Mr.
K----, a friend of John's, and sundry and several came.... We acted
charades, and they all went away in high good humor.
Parliament meets again in a few days, and then comes the tug of
war. Lord John Russell was at Oatlands while we were there, and as
the Francis Egertons and their guests were all anti-Reformers, they
led him rather a hard life. He bore all their attacks with great
good humor, however, and with the well-satisfied smile of a man who
thinks himself on the right, and knows himself on the safe side,
and wisely forbore to reply to their sallies. Our visit there was
delightful.
As the distance is but one and twenty miles, my mother and I posted
down in the open carriage. The only guests we found on our arrival
were Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan (she is a daughter of Lady Dacre's, and
a charming person), Lord John Russell, and two of our _corps
dramatique_, Mr. Craven and Captain Shelley, son of Sir John
Shelley, a handsome, good-humored, pleasant young gentleman, who
acts Charles V. in "Hernani." I got up very early the first morning
I was there and went down before breakfast to our little old
cottage. In the lane leading to it I met a poor woman who lived
near us, and whom we used to employ. I spoke to her, but she did
not know me again. I wonder if these four years can have changed me
so much? The tiny house had not been inhabited since we lived
there.... My aunt Siddons is better, and Cecy very well.
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
[The beautiful domain of Oatlands was only rented at this time by Lord
Francis Egerton, who delighted so much in it that he made overtures for
the purchase of it. The house was by no means a good one, though it had
been the abode of royalty; but the park was charming, and the whole
neighborhood, especially the wooded ranges of St. George's Hill,
extremely wild and picturesque.... Lord Francis Egerton bought St.
George's Hill, at the foot of which he built Hatchford, Lady Ellesmere's
charming dower house and residence after his death, and the house of
Oatlands became a country inn, very pleasant to those who had never
known it as the house of former friends, and therefore did not meet
ghosts in all its rooms and garden walks; and the park was cut up into
small villa residences and rascally inclined citizen's boxes. Hatchford,
the widowed home of Lady Ellesmere and burial-place of her brother, to
whose memory she erected there an elaborate mausoleum, has passed out of
the family possessions and become the property of strangers. One son of
the house lives on St. George's Hill, and has his home where I have so
often drawn rein while riding with his father and mother to look over
the wild, wooded slopes to the smiling landscape stretching in sunny
beauty far below us.]
_Monday, May 30th._ ... The Francis Egertons called, and sat a long
time discussing "Hernani." ... I must record such a good pun of
his, which he only, alas, _dreamt_. He dreamt Lord W---- came up to
him, covered with gold chains and ornaments of all sorts, and that
he had called him the "Chain Pier." ... In the evening to
Bridgewater House. As soon as we arrived, I went to my own private
room, and looked over my part. We began at nine. Our audience was
larger than the last time. The play went off extremely well; we
were all improved. I was very anxious to play well, for the
Archbishop of York was in the front row, and he (poor gentleman!)
had never had the happiness of seeing me, the play-house being
forbidden ground to him. [This seems rather inconsistent, as all
the lesser clergy at this time frequented the theater without fear
or reproach. Dr. Hughes, the Very Reverend Prebend of St. Paul's,
Milman, Harness, among our own personal friends, were there
constantly, not to speak of my behind-the-scenes acquaintance, the
Rev. A.F.] I should like to seduce an old Archbishop into a liking
for the wickedness of my mystery, so I did my very best to edify
him, according to my kind and capacity.... At the end of the play,
as I lay dead on the stage, the king (Captain Shelley) was cutting
three great capers, like Bayard on his field of battle, for joy his
work was done, when his pretty dancing shoes attracted, in spite of
my decease, my attention, and I asked, with rapidly reviving
interest in existence, what they meant, on which I was informed
that the supper at Mrs. Cunliffe's was indeed a ball. I jumped up
from the dead, hurried off my stage robes, and hurried on my
private apparel, and followed my mother into the saloon. Here I had
delightful talk (though I believe I was dancing on my mind's feet
all the while) with Lord John Russell, Miss Berry, Lady Charlotte
Lindsay, and that charming person, James Wortley, and I got a
glimpse of Lord O----'s lovely face, who is a beautiful creature.
After being duly stared at by the crowds of my exalted
fellow-beings who filled the room, Lady Francis said she would send
them away, and we adjourned to Mrs. Cunliffe's, and had a very fine
ball; that is to say, we had neither room to dance, nor space to
sit, nor power to move.
Going into the drawing-room I found my darling Dr. Combe there, and
if I had not been so tired I must have made a jump at his neck, I
was so very glad to see him. He brought me a letter from Mr. Combe,
whom I love only one step lower. He sat with us but a short time,
and leaves town to-morrow, which I am sorry for, first, because I
should like to have seen him again so very much, and next, because
I should have been glad that my mother became better acquainted
with the mental charms and seductions of the man whose outward
appearance seems to have allayed some of her apprehensions for the
safety of my heart and those of my Edinburgh cousins. Mrs. W----
called soon after. She is intent upon my acting Mlle. Mar's part in
"Henri Trois." I can do nothing with any French part in Covent
Garden. If they can find a theater of half that size to get it up
in, well and good; but seen from a distance, which defies
discrimination of objects, a thistle is as good as a rose, and in
that enormous frame refinement is mere platitude, and finish of
detail an unnecessary minutia.
_Wednesday, June 1st._--At the riding school saw Miss C----, who
wants me to get the play changed at Covent Garden _for this
evening_--"rien que cela!" What a fine thing it is to be "one of
those people!" They fancy that anybody's business of any sort can
be postponed to the first whim that enters their head. My mother
came with Dr. Combe in the carriage to fetch me from the riding
school. At home found a note from Lady Francis and the epilogue
Lord Francis has written to "Hernani," which I am certainly bound
to like, for it is highly complimentary to me.
My mother has had a letter from my father (he was acting in the
provinces), who says he has met and shaken hands with Mr. Harris
(his co-proprietor of Covent Garden, and antagonist in our ruinous
lawsuit about it). I wonder what benefit is to be expected from
that operation with--such a person.
_Monday, June 6th._--The house was very full at the theater this
evening, and Miss C---- sent me round a delicious fresh bouquet. I
acted well, I think; the play was "Romeo and Juliet." It is so very
pleasant to return to Shakespeare, after _reciting_ Bianca and
Isabella, etc. I reveled in the glorious poetry and the bright,
throbbing _reality_ of that Italian girl's existence; and yet
Juliet is nothing like as nice as Portia--_nobody_ is as nice as
Portia. But the oftener I act Juliet the oftener I think it ought
never to be acted at all, and the more absurd it seems to me to try
to act it. After the play my mother sent a note with the carriage
to say she would not go to the ball, so I dressed myself and drove
off with my father from the theater to the Countess de S----'s. At
half-past eleven the ball had not begun. Mrs. Norton was there in
splendid beauty; at about half-past twelve the dancing began, and
it was what is called a very fine ball. While I was dancing with
Mr. C----, I saw my father talking to a handsome and very
magnificent lady, who my partner told me was the Duchess of B----;
after our quadrille, when I rejoined my father, he said to me,
"Fanny, let me present you to ----" here he mumbled something
perfectly inaudible, and I made a courtesy, and the lady smiled
sweetly and said some civil things and went away. "Whose name did
you mention," said I to my father, with some wickedness, "just now
when you introduced me to that lady?" "Nobody's, my dear, nobody's;
I haven't the remotest idea who she is." "The Duchess of B----,"
said I, glibly, strong in the knowledge I had just acquired from my
partner. "Bless my soul!" cried the poor man, with a face of the
most ludicrous dismay, "so it was! I had quite forgotten her,
though she was good enough to remember me, and here I have been
talking cross-questions and crooked answers to her for the last
half-hour!"
As soon as the news came my father went off to see what he could do
for Cecilia, poor thing, and to bring her here, if she can be
persuaded to leave Baker Street. He was not much shocked, though
naturally deeply grieved by the event; my aunt has now been ill so
long that any day might have brought the termination of the
protracted process of her death. When he returned he said Cecilia
was composed and quiet, but would not leave the house at present. I
have written to Lady Francis to decline going to Oatlands, which we
were to have done this week.
And _the_ Lady Macbeth will never be seen again! I wish just now
that in honor of my aunt the play might be forbidden to be
performed for the next ten years. My father and myself have a
holiday at the theater--but only for the week--because of Mrs.
Siddons's death, and we are to go down to Oatlands--nobody being
there but ourselves, that is my brother and I--for the rest and
quiet and fresh air of these few days.
I did all this reading before breakfast, and when I left my room it
was still too early for any one to be up, so I set off for a run in
the park. The morning was lovely, vivid, and bright, with soft
shadows flitting across the sky and chasing one another over the
sward, while a delicious fresh wind rustled the trees and rippled
the grass; and unable to resist the temptation, bonnetless as I
was, I set off at the top of my speed, running along the terrace,
past the grotto, and down a path where the syringa pelted me with
showers of mock-orange blossoms, till I came under some magnificent
old cedars, through whose black, broad-spread wings the morning sun
shone, drawing their great shadows on the sweet-smelling earth
beneath them, strewed with their russet-colored shedding. I thought
it looked and smelt like a Russia-leather carpet. Then I came to
the brink of the water, to a little deserted fishing pavilion
surrounded by a wilderness of bloom that was once a garden, and
then I ran home to breakfast. After breakfast I went over the very
same ground with Lady Francis, extremely demure, with my bonnet on
my head and a parasol in my hand, and the utmost propriety of
decorous demeanor, and said never a word of my mad morning's
explorings. A girl's run and a young lady's walk are very different
things, and I hold both pleasant in their way. The carriage was
ordered to take my mother to Addlestone to see poor old Mrs.
Whitelock, and during her absence Lady Francis and I repaired to
her own private sitting-room, and we entertained each other with
extracts from our respective journals. I was struck with the high
esteem she expressed for Lord Carlisle; in one place in her journal
she said she wished she could hope her boys would grow up as
excellent men as he is, and this in spite of her party politics,
for she is a Tory and he a Whig, and she is really a partisan
politician.
In the afternoon, after a charming meandering ride, we determined
to go to Monks Grove, the place Lady Charlotte Greville has taken
on St. Anne's Hill.... In the evening we had terrifical ghost
stories, which held, us fascinated till _one o'clock in the
morning_.
_Sunday, June 12th._-- ... It's nearly five years since I said my
prayers in that dear old little Weybridge church....
On our return, as the horses are never used on Sunday, we went down
to the water and got into the boat. The day was lovely, and as we
glided along the bright water my mother and Lady Francis and I
murmured, half voice, all sorts of musical memories, which made a
nice accompaniment to Lord Francis's occasional oar-dip that just
kept the boat in motion. When we landed, my mother returned to the
house, and the rest of us set off for a long delightful stroll to
the farm, where I saw a monstrous and most beautiful dog whom I
should like to have hugged, but that he looked so grave and wise it
seemed like a liberty. We walked on through a part of the park
called America, because of the magnificent rhododendrons and
azaleas and the general wildness of the whole. The mass was so deep
one's feet sank into it; the sun, setting, threw low, slanting rays
along the earth and among the old tree trunks. It was a beautiful
bit of forest scenery; how like America I do not know. Upon the
racecourse we emerged into a full, still afternoon atmosphere of
brilliant and soft splendor; the whole park was flooded with
sunshine, and little creeks of light ran here and there into the
woods we had just left, touching with golden radiance a solitary
tree, and glancing into leafy nooks here and there, while the mass
of woodland was one deep shadow....
We did not return home till near nine, and so, instead of dinner,
all sat down to high tea, at which everybody was very cheerful and
gay, and the talk very bright....
_Wednesday, June 15th._-- ... The races in the park were to begin
at one, and we wished, of course, to keep clear of them and all the
gay company; so at twelve my mother and I got into the pony
carriage, and drove to Addlestone to my aunt Whitelock's pretty
cottage there. It rained spitefully all day, and the races and all
the fine racing folk were drenched. At about six o'clock my father
came from London, bringing me letters; the weather had brightened,
and I took a long stroll with him till time to dress for dinner....
In the evening music and pleasant talk till one o'clock.
After lunch my mother, Lady Charlotte, and Mr. Greville drove off
to Monks Grove, and we followed them on horse-back; it is a little
paradise of a place, with its sunny, smooth sloping lawns and
bright, sparkling piece of water, the masses of flowers blossoming
in profuse beauty, and the high, overhanging, sheltering woods of
St. Anne's Hill rising behind it. On our way home much talk of
Naples. I might like to go there, no doubt; the question is how I
should like to come back to London after Naples, and I think not at
all. In the evening read the pretty French piece of "Michel et
Christine" which my father had sent me.
_Friday, June 17th._-- ... My mother, Mr. C----, and I drove
together back to town; so good-by, Oatlands.
Soon after this my father and aunt and myself left London for our summer
tour in the provinces, which we began at Bristol.
_Monday, July 4th, Bristol._--The play was "Romeo and Juliet," and
the nurse was a perfect farce in herself; she really was worth any
money, and her soliloquy when she found me "up and dressed and down
again," very nearly made me scream with laughter in the middle of
my trance. Indeed, the whole play was probably considered an
"improved version" of Shakespeare's Veronese story, both in the
force and delicacy of the text. Sundry wicked words and coarse
appellations were decorously dispensed with; many fine passages
received judicious additions; not a few were equally judiciously
omitted altogether. What a shocking hash!
The horses having come to the door, we set off for our ride; our
steeds were but indifferent hacks, but the road was charming, and
the evening serene and pure, and I was with my father, a
circumstance of enjoyment to me always. The characteristic feature
of the scenery of this region is the vivid, deep-toned foliage of
the hanging woods, through whose dense tufts of green, masses of
gray rock and long scars of warm-colored red-brown earth appear
every now and then with the most striking effect. The deep-sunk
river wound itself drowsily to a silver thread at the base of steep
cliffs, to the summit of which we climbed, reaching a fine level
land of open downs carpeted with close, elastic turf. On we rode,
up hill and down dale, through shady lanes full of the smell of
lime-blossom, skirting meadows fragrant with the ripe mellow hay
and honey-sweet clover, and then between plantations of aromatic,
spicy fir and pine, all exhaling their perfumes under the influence
of the warm sunset. At last we made a halt where the road, winding
through Lord de Clifford's property, commanded an enchanting view.
On our right, rolling ground rising gradually into hills, clothed
to their summits with flourishing evergreens, firs, larches,
laurel, arbutus--a charming variety in the monotony of green. On
the farthest of these heights Blaise Castle, with two gray towers,
well defined against the sky, looked from its bosky eminence over
the whole domain, which spread on our left in sloping lawns, where
single oaks and elms of noble size threw their shadows on the
sunlit sward, which looked as if none but fairies' feet had ever
pressed it. Beyond this, through breaks and frames, and arches made
by the trees, the broad Severn glittered in the wavy light. It was
a beautiful landscape in every direction. We returned home by sea
wall and the shore of the Severn, which seemed rather bare and
bleak after the soft loveliness we had just left....
I can neither bid you confirm nor deny any "_reports_ you may
hear," for I am in utter ignorance, I am happy to say, of the
world's surmisings on my behalf, and had indeed supposed that my
time for being honored by its notice in any way was pretty well
past and over.
The Bristol people are rather in a bad state just now for our
purposes, for trade here is in a very unprosperous condition; and
the recent failure of many of their great mercantile houses does no
good to our theatrical ones. The audiences are very pleasant,
however, and the company by no means bad. We are here another week,
and then take ship for Ilfracombe, and thence by land to Exeter;
after that Plymouth and Southampton.... I wish I could be in London
for "Anna Bolena." I cannot adequately express my admiration for
Madame Pasta; I saw her in Desdemona the Saturday night on which I
scrawled those few lines to you. I think if you knew how every look
and tone and gesture of hers affects me, you would be satisfied.
She is almost equal to an imagination; more than that I cannot say.
If you rate "imagination" as I think you must, I need say nothing
more. We shall certainly be back in London by the end of September,
if not before. In the mean time believe me ever yours most truly,
F. A. K.
_Monday, 11th._--At night the theater was very full, and the
audience pleasant. During supper my father, Charles Mason, and I
had a long discussion about Kean. I cannot help thinking my father
wrong about him. Kean _is_ a man of decided genius, no matter how
he neglects or abuses nature's good gift. He has it. He has the
first element of all greatness--power. No taste, perhaps, and no
industry, perhaps; but let his deficiencies be what they may, his
faults however obvious, his conceptions however erroneous, and his
characters, each considered as a whole, however imperfect, he has
the one atoning faculty that compensates for everything else, that
seizes, rivets, electrifies all who see and hear him, and stirs
down to their very springs the passionate elements of our nature.
Genius alone can do this.
I do not know that I ever saw him in any character which impressed
me as a _whole work of art_; he never seems to me to intend to be
any one of his parts, but I think he intends that all his parts
should be _him_. So it is not Othello who is driven frantic by
doubt and jealousy, nor Shylock who is buying human flesh by its
weight in gold, nor Sir Giles Overreach who is selling his child to
hell for a few years of wealth and power; it is Kean, and in every
one of his characters there is an intense personality of his _own_
that, while one is under its influence, defies all
criticism--moments of such overpowering passion, accents of such
tremendous power, looks and gestures of such thrilling, piercing
meaning, that the excellence of those _parts_ of his performances
more than atones for the want of greater unity in conception and
smoothness in the entire execution of them.
The discussion about Kean led naturally to some talk about his most
famous parts, particularly Shylock. My father's conception of
Shylock seems to me less the right one than Kean's; but then, if my
father took what _I_ think the right view of the part, he would
have to give up acting it. The real Shylock--that is,
Shakespeare's--is a creature totally opposite in his whole
organization, physical and mental, to my father's; and as my father
cannot force his nature in any particular into uniformity with that
of Shylock, he endeavors to persuade himself that the theory by
which he tries to bring it into harmony with his individuality, and
within the compass of his powers, is the right one; but I think him
entirely mistaken about it. Kean did with the part exactly what my
father wants to do--adapted his conceptions to his means of
execution; but Kean's physical constitution was much better suited
to express Shylock as Shylock should be expressed than my father's.
My father attempts to make Shylock "poetical" (in the superficial
sense), because that is the bias of his own mind in matters of art.
Classical purity and refinement of taste are his specialties as an
actor, and neither power nor intensity.
_Thursday, 14th._-- ... At the theater the house was very good, and
the audience very pleasant. The play was "The Provoked Husband,"
and I'm sure I play his provoking wife badly enough to provoke
anybody; but she's not a person to my mind, which is an artistic
view of the case.
At the theater the house was very full, and the audience
particularly amiable. In the interval between the fourth and fifth
acts Charles Mason made a speech to them, informing them of Mr.
Brunton's distress, and our intention of acting for him on Monday.
They applauded very much, and I hope they will do more, and come.
My part of the charity is certainly not small; to be pulled and
pushed and dragged hither and thither, and generally "knocked
about," as the miserable Belvidera, for three mortal hours, is a
sacrifice of self which my conscience bears me witness is laudable.
I would much rather pay with my purse than my person in this case.
Unfortunately, je n'ai pas de quoi.
We shall not leave Bristol to-day. The wind is contrary and the
weather quite unfavorable for a party of pleasure, which our trip
by sea to Ilfracombe was to be. It's very disagreeable living half
in one's trunks and traveling-bags, as this sort of uncertainty
compels one to do. I studied Dante, wrote verses and sketched, and
tried to be busy; but a defeated departure leaves one's mind and
thoughts only half unpacked, and I felt idle and unsettled, though
I worked at "The Star of Seville" till dinner-time.
_Friday, July 22d._--Long and edifying talk with dear Dall upon my
prospects in marrying. "While you remain single," says she, "and
choose to work, your fortune is an independent and ample one; as
soon as you marry, there's no such thing. Your position in
society," says she, "is both a pleasanter and more distinguished
one than your birth or real station entitles you to; but that also
is the result of your professional exertions, and might, and
probably would, alter for the worse if you left the stage; for,
after all, it is mere frivolous fashionable popularity." I ought to
have got up and made her a courtesy for that. So that it seems I
have fortune and fame (such as it is)--positive real advantages,
which I cannot give with myself, and which I cease to own when I
give myself away, which certainly makes my marrying any one or any
one marrying me rather a solemn consideration; for I lose
everything, and my marryee gains nothing in a worldly point of
view--says she--and it's incontrovertible and not pleasant. So I
took up Dante, and read about devils boiled in pitch, which
refreshed my imagination and cheered my spirits very much.
[How far my ingenious mind was from foreseeing the days when men of high
rank and social station would marry singers, dancers, and actresses, and
be condescending enough to let their wives continue to earn their bread
by public exhibition, and even to appropriate the proceeds of their
theatrical labors! I have not yet made up my mind whether, in these
cases, the _gentleman_ ought not to take his wife's name in private, as
a compensation for her not taking his in public. Poor Miss Paton's noble
husband was the only Englishman, that I know of, who committed that act
of self-effacement. To go much further back in dramatic and social
history, the old, accomplished, mad Earl of Peterborough married the
famous singer Anastasia Robinson, and refused to acknowledge the fact
till her death. To be sure, this was a more cowardly, but a less dirty
meanness. He withheld his name from her, but did not take her money.]
Thank you for John's translation of the German song, the original
of which I know and like very much. The thoughts it suggested to
you must constantly arise in all of us. I believe that in these
matters I feel all that you do, but not with the same intensity. To
adore is most natural to the mind contemplating beauty, might, and
majesty beyond its own powers; to implore is most natural to the
heart oppressed with suffering, or agitated with hopes that it
cannot accomplish, or fears from which it cannot escape. The
difference between natural and revealed religion is that the one
worships the loveliness and power it perceives, and the other the
goodness, mercy, and truth in which it believes. The one prays for
exemption from pain and enjoyment of happiness for body and mind in
this present existence; the other for deliverance from spiritual
evils, or the possession of spiritual graces, by which the soul is
fitted for that better life toward which it tends....
Yours ever,
F. A. K.
The day has been lovely, and from my perch among the clouds here I
am looking down upon a lovely view. Following the irregular line of
buildings of the street, the eye suddenly becomes embowered in a
thick rich valley of foliage, beyond which a hill rises, whose
sides are covered with ripening corn-fields, meadows of vivid
green, and fields where the rich red color of the earth contrasts
beautifully with the fresh hedgerows and tall, dark elm trees,
whose shadows have stretched themselves for evening rest down in
the low rosy sunset. It is all still and bright, and the Sabbath
bells come up to me over it all with intermitting sweetness, like
snatches of an interrupted angels' chorus, floating hither and
thither about the earth.
Our dinner-party this evening was like nothing but a chapter out of
one of Miss Austen's novels. What wonderful books those are! She
must have written down the very conversations she heard _verbatim_,
to have made them so like, which is Irish.... How many things one
ought to die of and doesn't! That dinner did come to an end. In the
drawing-room afterward, in spite of the dreadful heat, two fair
female friends actually divided one chair between them; I expected
to see them run into one every minute, and kept speculating then
which they would be, till the idea fascinated me like a thing in a
nightmare. As we were taking our departure, and had got half way
down the stairs, a general rush was made at us, and an attempt,
upon some pretext, to get us back into that dreadful drawing-room.
I thought of Malebranche hooking the miserable souls that tried to
escape back again into the boiling pitch. But we got away and safe
home, and leave Exeter to-morrow.
You have been to the Opera, and seen what even one's imagination
does not shrug its shoulders at; I mean Madame Pasta. I admire her
perfectly, and she seems to me perfect. How I wish I had been with
you! And yet I cannot fancy you in the Opera House; it is a sort of
atmosphere that I find it difficult to think of your breathing....
I wish you had not asked me to write verses for you upon that
picture of Haydon's "Bonaparte at St. Helena." Of course, I know it
familiarly through the engraving, and, in spite of its sunshine,
what a shudder and chill it sends to one's heart! It is very
striking, but I have neither the strength nor concentrativeness
requisite for writing upon it. The simplicity of its effect is what
makes it so fine; and any poetry written upon it would probably
fail to be as simple, and therefore as powerful, as itself. I
cannot even promise you to attempt it, but if ever I fall in with a
suitable frame of mind for so bold an experiment, I will remember
you and the rocks of St. Helena. "My lady" (an Italian portrait on
which I had written some verses) "Mia Donna," or "Madonna," more
properly to speak, was a most beautiful Italian portrait that I
saw, not in Augustin's gallery, but in a small collection of
pictures belonging to Mr. Day, and exhibited at the Egyptian Hall.
Sir Thomas Lawrence told me when I described it to him, that he
thought it was a painting of Giordano's. It was a lovely face, not
youthful in its character of beauty; there is a calm seriousness
about the brow and forehead, a clear, intellectual severity about
the eye, and a sweet, still placidity round the mouth, that united,
to my fancy, all the elements of beauty, physical, mental, and
moral. What an incomparable friend that woman must have been! Why
is it that we rejoice that a soul fit for heaven is constrained to
tarry here, but that, in truth, the fittest for this is also the
fittest for that life? For it seems to me more natural not to wish
to detain the bright spirit from its brighter home, and not to
sorrow at the decree which calls it hence to perfect its excellence
in higher spheres of duty....
and I am sure I need not tell you that I am sincerely grateful for
all the kindness and civility that is bestowed upon us wherever we
go.... What with riding, rehearsing, and acting, my days are
completely filled. We start for Plymouth to-morrow at eight, and
act "Romeo and Juliet" in the evening, which is rather laborious
work. We play there every night next week. When next I write I will
tell you of our further plans, which are at this moment still
uncertain....
Affectionately yours,
F. A. K.
[These were the days before railroads had run everything and everybody
up to London. There were still to be found then, in various parts of
England, life that was peculiar and provincial, and manners that had in
them a character of their own and a stamp of originality that had often
quite as much to attract as to repel. Men and women are, of course,
still the same that sat to that enchanting painter, Jane Austen, but the
whole form and color and outward framing and various countenance of
their lives have merged its distinctiveness in a commonplace conformity
to universal custom; and in regard to the more superficial subjects of
her fine and gentle satire, if she were to return among us she would
find half her occupation gone.]
_Monday, August 1st._--I got some books while waiting for the
coach, and we started at half-past eight. The heat was intolerable
and the dust suffocating, but the country through which we passed
was lovely. For a long time we drove along the brow of a steep
hill. The valley was all glorious with the harvest: corn-fields
with the red-gold billows yet untouched by the sickle; others full
of sunburnt reapers sweeping down the ripe ears; others, again,
silent and deserted, with the tawny sheaves standing, bound and
dry, upon the bristling stubble, on the ground over which they
rippled and nodded yesterday, a great rolling sea of burnished
grain. All over the sunny landscape peace and prosperity smiled,
and gray-steepled churches and red-roofed villages, embowered in
thick protecting shade, seemed to beckon the eye to rest as it
wandered over the charming prospect. The white-walled mansions of
the lords of the land glittered from the verdant shelter of their
surrounding plantations, and the thirsty cattle, beautiful in color
and in grouping, stood in pools in the deeper parts of the brooks,
where some giant tree threw its shadow over the water and the
smooth sheltered sward round its feet. In spite of this charming
prospect I was very sad, and the purple heather bordering the road,
with its thick tufts, kept suggesting Weybridge and the hours I had
lately spent there so happily.... To shake myself I took up "Adam
Blair;" and, good gracious! what a shaking it did give me! What a
horrible book! And how could D---- have recommended me to read it?
It is a very fine and powerful piece of work, no doubt; but I
turned from it with infinite relief to "Quentin Durward." Walter
Scott is quite exciting enough for wholesome pleasure; there is no
poison in anything that he has ever written: for how many hours of
harmless happiness the world may bless him!
_Tuesday, August 2d._--Rose at seven, and went off down to the sea,
and that was delightful. In the evening the play was "Venice
Preserved." I acted very well, notwithstanding that I had to prompt
my Jaffier through every scene, not only as to words, but position
on the stage, and "business," as it is called. How unprincipled and
ungentlemanlike this is! The house was very fine, and a pleasanter
audience than the first night. Found a letter from Mrs. Jameson
after the play, with an account of Pasta's "Anna Bolena." How I
wish I could see it!
At the theater the play was "The Gamester," for my benefit, and the
house was very fine. My father played magnificently; I "not even
excellent well, but only so-so." The actors none of them knew their
parts, abominable persons; and as for Stukely--well! Mdlle.
Dumesnil, in her great, furious scene in Hermione, ended her
imprecations against Orestes by spitting in her handkerchief and
throwing it in his face. The handkerchief spoils the frenzy. I
wonder if it ever occurred to Mrs. Siddons so to wind up her abuse
of Austria in "King John." By the by, it was when asked to give his
opinion of the comparative merits of Clairon and Dumesnil, that
Garrick said, "Mdlle. Clairon was the greatest actress of the age,
but that for Mdlle. Dumesnil he was not aware that he had seen her,
but only Phedre, Rodogund, and Hermione, when she did them." After
the play the audience clamored for my father. He thought that
"l'envie leur en passerait;" and not being in a very good humor, he
declined appearing. The uproar went on, the overture to the farce
was inaudible, and the curtain drew up amid the deafening shouts of
"Kemble! Kemble!"--they would not suffer the poor _far�eurs_ to go
on, even in dumb show. I was at the side scene, and thought it
really a pity not to put an end to all the fuss; so I went to my
father, who was standing at the stage door in the street, and
requested him to stop the disturbance by coming forward at once. He
turned round, and without saying anything but "Tu me le
conseilles," walked straight upon the stage, and addressed the
audience as follows: "Ladies and gentlemen, I had left the theater
when word was brought to me that you had done me the honor to call
for me; as I conclude you have done so merely in conformity to a
custom which is becoming the fashion of calling for certain
performers after the play, I can only say, ladies and gentlemen,
that I enter my protest against such a custom. It is a foreign
fashion, and we are Englishmen; therefore I protest against it. I
will take my leave of you by parodying Mercutio's words: Ladies and
gentlemen, _bon soir_; there's a French salutation for you." So
saying he walked off the stage, leaving the audience rather
surprised; and so was I. I think he is laboring under an incipient
bilious attack.
_Thursday, August 11th._--A kind and courteous and most courtly old
Mr. M---- called upon us, to entreat that we would dine with him
during our stay in Weymouth; but it is really impossible, with all
our hard work, to do society duty too, so I begged permission to
decline. After he was gone we walked down to the pier, and took
boat and rowed to Portland. The sky was cloudless, and the sea
without a wave, and through its dark-blue transparent roofing we
saw clearly the bottom, one forest of soft, undulating weeds,
which, catching the sunlight through the crystal-clear water,
looked like golden woods of some enchanted world within its depths;
and it looks just as weird and lovely when folks go drowning down
there, only they don't see it. I sang Mrs. Hemans's "What hid'st
thou in thy treasure-caves and cells?" and sang and sang till,
after rowing for an hour over the hardly heaving, smooth surface,
we reached the foot of the barren stone called Portland. We landed,
and Dall remained on the beach while my father and I toiled up the
steep ascent. The sun's rays fell perpendicularly on our heads, the
short, close grass which clothed the burning, stony soil was as
slippery as glass with the heat, and I have seldom had a harder
piece of exercise than climbing that rock, from the summit of which
one wide expanse of dazzling water and glaring white cliffs, that
scorched one's eyeballs, was all we had for our reward. To be sure,
exertion is a pleasure in itself, and when one's strength serves
one's courage, the greater the exertion the greater the pleasure.
We saw below us a railroad cut in the rock to convey the huge
masses of stone from the famous quarries down to the shore. The
descent looked almost vertical, and we watched two immense loads go
slowly down by means of a huge cylinder and chains, which looked as
if the world might hang upon them in safety. I lay down on the
summit of the rock while my father went off exploring further, and
the perfect stillness of the solitude was like a spell. There was
not a sound of life but the low, drowsy humming of the bees in the
stone-rooted tufts of fragrant thyme. On our return we had to run
down the steep, slippery slopes, striking our feet hard to the
earth to avoid falling; firm walking footing there was none. When
we joined Dall we found, to our utter dismay, that it was five
o'clock; we bundled ourselves _p�le-m�le_ into the boat and bade
the boatman row, row, for dear life; but while we were indulging in
the picturesque he had been indulging in fourpenny, which made him
very talkative, and his tongue went faster than his arms. I longed
for John to make our boat fly over the smooth, burnished sea; the
oars came out of the water like long bars of diamond dropping gold.
We touched shore just at six, swallowed three mouthfuls of dinner,
and off to the theater. The play was "Venice Preserved." I dressed
as quick as lightning, and was ready in time. The house was not
very good, and I am sure I should have wondered if it had been,
when the moon is just rising over the fresh tide that is filling
the basin, and a delicious salt breeze blows along the beach, and
the stars are lighting their lamps in heaven; and surely nobody but
those who cannot help it would be breathing the gas and smoke and
vile atmosphere of the playhouse. I played well, and when we came
home ran down and stood a few minutes by the sea; but the moon had
set, and the dark palpitating water only reflected the long line of
lights from the houses all along the curving shore.
So you have seen the railroad; I am so glad you have seen that
magnificent invention. I wish I had been on it with you. I wish you
had seen Stephenson; you would have delighted in him, I am sure.
The hope of meeting him again is one of the greatest pleasures
Liverpool holds out to me.... With regard to what are called "fine
people," and liking their society better than that of "not fine
people," I suppose a good many tolerable reasons might be adduced
by persons who have that preference. They do not often say very
wise or very witty things, I dare say; but neither do they tread on
one's feet or poke their elbows into one's side (figuratively
speaking) in their conversation, or commit the numerous solecisms
of manner of less well-bred people. For myself, my social position
does not entitle me to mix with the superior class of human beings
generally designated as "fine people." My father's indolence
renders their society an irksome exertion to him, and my mother's
pride always induces her to hang back rather than to make advances
to anybody. We are none of us, therefore, inclined to be very keen
tuft-hunters. But for these very reasons, if "fine people" seek me,
it is a decided compliment, by which my vanity is flattered. A
person with less of that quality might be quite indifferent to
their notice, but I think their society, as far as I have had any
opportunity of observing it, has certain positive merits, which
attract me irrespectively of the gratification of my vanity. Genius
and pre-eminent power of intellect, of course, belong to no class,
and one would naturally prefer the society of any individual who
possessed these to that of the King of England (who, by the by, is
not, I believe, particularly brilliant). I would rather pass a day
with Stephenson than with Lord Alvanley, though the one is a
coal-digger by birth, who occasionally murders the king's English,
and the other is the keenest wit and one of the finest gentlemen
about town. But Stephenson's attributes of genius, industry, mental
power, and perseverance are his individually, while Lord Alvanley's
gifts and graces (his wit, indeed, excepted) are, in good measure,
those of his whole social set. Moreover, in the common superficial
intercourse of society, the minds and morals of those you meet are
really not what you come in contact with half the time, while from
their manners there is, of course, no escape; and therefore those
persons may well be preferred as temporary associates whose manners
are most refined, easy, and unconstrained, as I think those of
so-called "fine people" are. Originality and power of intellect
belong to no class, but with information, cultivation, and the
mental advantages derived from education, "fine people" are perhaps
rather better endowed, as a class, than others. Their lavish means
for obtaining instruction, and their facilities for traveling, if
they are but moderately endowed by nature and moderately inclined
to profit by them, certainly enable them to see, hear, and know
more of the surface of things than others. This is, no doubt, a
merely superficial superiority; but I suppose that there are not
many people, and certainly no class of people, high, low, or of any
degree, who go much below surfaces.... If you knew how, long after
I have passed it, the color of a tuft of heather, or the smell of a
branch of honeysuckle by the roadside, haunts my imagination, and
how many suggestions of beauty and sensations of pleasure flow from
this small spring of memory, even after the lapse of weeks and
months, you would understand what I am going to say, which perhaps
may appear rather absurd without such a knowledge of my
impressions. I think I like fine places better than "fine people;"
but then one accepts, as it were, the latter for the former, and
the effect of the one, to a certain degree, affects one's
impressions of the other. A great ball at Devonshire House, for
instance, with its splendor, its brilliancy, its beauty, and
magnificence of all sorts, remains in one's mind with the
enchantment of a live chapter of the "Arabian Nights;" and I think
one's imagination is still more impressed with the fine residences
of "fine people" in the country, where historical and poetical
associations combine with all the refinements of luxurious
civilization and all the most exquisitely cultivated beauties of
nature to produce an effect which, to a certain degree, frames
their possessors to great advantage, and invests them with a charm
which is really not theirs; and if they are only tolerably in
harmony with the places where they live, they appear charming too.
I believe the pleasure and delight I take in the music, the lights,
the wreaths, and mirrors of a splendid ball-room, and the love I
have for the smooth lawns, bright waters, and lordly oaks of a fine
domain, would disgracefully influence my impressions of the people
I met amongst them. Still, I humbly trust I do not like any of my
friends, fine or coarse, only for their belongings, though my
intercourse with the first gratifies my love of luxury and excites
what my Edinburgh friends call my ideality. I don't think, however.
I ever could like anybody, of any kind whatever, that I could not
heartily respect, let their intellectual gifts, elegance, or
refinement of manners be what they might. Good-by, dearest H----.
I received my book and your letter very safely about a week ago,
and would have written to say so sooner, but have been much
occupied with one thing and another that has prevented me. So you
are beaten, _vieilles perukes_ that you are! not by one or two, but
by forty-one; and your bones are all the likelier to ache, and I am
not at all sorry. Think of Brougham going down on his marrow-bones
(there can be none in them, though), and adjuring the Lords, con
quella voce! e quel viso! to pass the Bill, like good boys, and
remember the schoolmaster, who surely, when he is at home, cannot
be said to be abroad. A good _coup de th��tre_ is not an easy
thing, and requires a good deal of tact and skill. I cannot help
thinking there must have been something grotesque in this
performance of Brougham's, as when Liston turned tragedian and
recited Collins's "Ode to the Passions" in a green coat and top
boots. The excitement, however, was tremendous; the House thronged
to suffocation; as many people crammed into impossible space as the
angels in the famous Needle-point controversy. Lady Glengall
declares that she sat for four hours on an iron bar. I think this
universal political effervescence has got into my head. And what
will you do now? You cannot create forty-one Peers; the whole Book
of Genesis affords no precedent. I suppose Parliament will be
prorogued, ministers will go out, a "cloth of gold" and "cloth of
frieze" Government, with Brougham and Wellington brought together
into it, will be cobbled, and a new Bill, which will set the teeth
of the Lords so badly on edge, will be concocted, which the people
will accept rather than nothing, if they are taken in the right
way. That, I suppose, is what you Whigs will do; for an adverse
majority of forty-one must be turned somehow or other, as it can
hardly be gone straight at by folks who mean to keep on the box, or
hold the reins, or carry the coach to the end of the journey....
My dearest H----, I wish I were with you with all my heart, but, as
if to diminish my regret by putting the thing still further beyond
the region of possibility, I act next Monday the 17th, instead of
the 24th. (They say "a miss is as good as a mile;" why does it
always seem so much worse, then?) I begin with Belvidera, and have
already begun my cares and woes and tribulations about lilac satins
and silver tissues, etc., etc. Young is engaged with us, and plays
Pierre, and my father Giaffir, which will be very dreadful for me;
I do not know how I shall be able to bear all his wretchedness as
well as my own. To be a good politician one ought to have, as it
were, only one eye for truth; I do not at all mean to be
single-eyed in the good sense of the word, but to be incapable of
seeing more than one side of every question: one sees a part so
much more strongly when one does not see the whole of a matter, and
though a statesman may need a hundred eyes, I maintain that a party
politician is the better for having only one. Restricted vision is
good for work, too; people who see far and wide can seldom be very
hopeful, I should think, and hope is the very essence of working
courage. The matter in hand should always, if possible, be the
great matter to those who have to carry it through, and though
broad brains may be the best for conceiving, narrow ones are,
perhaps, the best for working with.
Thank you for your quotation from Sir Humphry Davy; it did me good,
and even made me better for five minutes; and your Irish letter,
which interested me extremely. "Walking the world." What a sad and
touching expression; and how well it describes a broken and
desponding spirit! And yet what else are we all doing, in soul if
not in body? Is not that solitary, wandering feeling the very
essence of our existence here?
You ask if the interests of the theater and mine are not identical?
No, I think not. The management seems to me like our Governments
for some time past, to be actuated by mere considerations of
temporary expediency; that which serves a momentary purpose is all
they consider. But it stands to reason that if they make me play
parts in which I must fail, my London popularity must decrease, and
with it my provincial profits; and that, of course, is a serious
thing. In short, dear H----, where success means bread and butter,
failure means dry bread, or none; and I hate the last, I believe,
less than the first, though, as I never tried starvation, perhaps
dry bread is nicer....
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
I called at Fozzard's for the boys, and set them down at Angelo's
(a famous school for fencing, boxing, and single-stick, where my
brothers took lessons in those polite exercises). In the evening,
at the theater, dear Charles Young played "The Stranger" for the
last time; the house was very full, and I played very ill. After
the play Young was enthusiastically called for. I have finished
"Tennant's Tour in Greece," which I rather liked. I have been
reading "Bonaparte's Letters to Jos�phine;" the vague and doubting
spirit which once or twice throws its wavering shadow across his
thoughts, startles one in contrast with the habitual tone of the
mind, which assuredly _ne doubtait de rien_, especially of what his
own power of will could accomplish. The affection he expresses for
his wife is sometimes almost poetical from its intensity, in spite
of the grossness of his language. He seems to have believed in
nothing but volition, and that volition is in itself, perhaps, a
mere form of faith. It's a dangerous worship, for the devil in that
shape does obey so long and so well before he claims his due; so
much is achieved precisely by that belief in what can be achieved;
the last round of the ladder, somehow or other, however, always
seems to break down at last, and then I doubt if the people who
fall from it can all declare, as Holcroft did when he fell from his
horse, and, as his surgeon assured him, broke his ribs, that he was
positive he had not, because in falling he had exerted the energy
of will, and could not therefore have broken his bones.
_Sunday, December 4th._-- ... My father, for the first time this
fortnight, was able to dine with us. After dinner I read the whole
trial of Bishop and Williams, and their confession. My mother is
reading aloud to us Lord Edward Fitzgerald's Life.
My father is better, thank God! After dinner sat with poor Henry
till time to go to the theater. Played Isabella. House bad. I
played well; I always do to an empty house (this was my invariable
experience both in my acting and reading performances, and I came
to the conclusion that as my spirits were not affected by a small
audience, they, on the contrary, were exhilarated by the effect
upon my lungs and voice of a comparatively cool and free
atmosphere). I read Daru between my scenes; I find it immensely
interesting.... I read Niccolini's "Giovanni di Procida," but did
not like it very much; I thought it dull and heavy, and not up to
the mark of such a very fine subject.
I have had time to write neither long nor short letters for the
last week; Mr. Young's engagement being at an end, I have been
called back to my work, and have had to rehearse, and to act, and
to be much too busy to write to you until to-day, when I have
caught up all my arrears.
My father, thank God, is once more recovering, but we have twice
been alarmed at such sudden relapses that we hardly dare venture to
hope he is really convalescent. Inflammation on the lungs has, it
seems, been going on for a considerable time, and though they think
now that it has entirely subsided, yet, as the least exertion or
exposure may bring it on again, we are watching him like the apples
of our eyes. He has not yet left his bed, to which he has now been
confined more than a month....
The exertion I have been obliged to make when leaving him to go and
act, was so full of misery and dread lest I should find him worse,
perhaps dead, on my return, that no words can describe what I have
suffered at that dreadful theater. Thank God, however, he is now
certainly better, out of present danger, and I trust and pray will
soon be beyond any danger of a relapse. Anything like Dall's
incessant and unwearied care and tenderness you cannot imagine.
Night and day she has watched and waited on him, and I think she
must have sunk under all the fatigue she has undergone but for the
untiring goodness and kindness of heart that has supported her
under it all. She is invaluable to us all, and every day adds to
her claims upon our love and gratitude....
The sense of power which man cannot control is one thing that makes
the sea such a delightful object of contemplation; the huge white
main, and deep, tremendous voice of the vast creature over which
man's daring and his knowledge give him but such imperfect mastery,
suggest images of strength which are full of sublime fascination as
one stands on the shore, looking at the vasty deep, and remembers
how precarious and uncertain is man's dominion over it, and how God
alone rules and governs it. It is impossible not to rejoice in the
great sense of its huge power and freedom, even though their
manifestations toward men are so often terrible and destructive....
Oh yes, indeed, I, like Wallenstein, have faith in the "strong
hours," and hold their influence the more efficacious that we
seldom think of resisting it; or, if we do, are seldom successful
in the attempt....
One of the most famous pictures here is "Our Saviour disputing with
the Doctors," by Leonardo da Vinci. I hardly ever receive pleasure
from his pictures; there is a mannerism in all that I have seen
that is positively disagreeable to me. How the later artists lost
the simple secret of earnest vigor of their predecessors, while
gaining in everything that was not that! Grace, finish, refinement,
accuracy of drawing, richness of coloring, all that merely tended
towards perfection and execution, while the simplicity and
single-heartedness of conception died away more and more. All art
seems by degrees to outgrow its strength, and certainly in painting
the archaic cradle touches one's imagination as neither the
graceful youth nor mature manhood do. "Le mieux c'est l'ennemi du
bien" in nothing more than the progress of art after a certain
period of its development, and when its mere mechanism is best
understood, and applied in the most masterly manner. The spirit has
tarried behind, and we have to return to seek it among the earlier
days, when the genius of man was like a giant, rude, naked, and
savage, but vigorous and free--unadorned indeed, but also
untrammeled. Only a certain proportion of excellence is allowed to
our race, but that is granted; and let us stretch it, expand it,
roll and beat it out as we will, it is still but the same square
inch made thin to cover a greater surface. For one good we still
must yield another; we have no gain that is not loss, no
acquisition but surrender, "exchange" which may perhaps be "no
robbery," though quantity does seem a poor substitute for quality
in matters of beauty. I wish I had lived in the times when the ore
lay in the ingot (and had been one of the few who owned a nugget),
instead of in these times of universal gold-leaf, glitter without
weight, and shining shallowness of mere surface. Vigor is better
than refinement, and to create better than to improve, and to
conceive better than to combine. I wonder if the world, or rather
the human mind, will ever really grow decrepit, and the fountain of
beauty in men's souls run dry to the dregs; or will the
manifestations only change, and the eternal spirit reveal itself in
other ways?...
On our way home I had a long and interesting talk with John about
the different forms of religious faith into which the gradual
development of the human mind has successively expanded; each, of
course, being the result of that very development, acting on the
original necessity to believe in and worship and obey something
higher and better than itself, implanted in our nature. It seems
strange that he has a leaning to Roman Catholicism, which I have
not. Our Protestant profession appears to me the purest
creed--form--that Christianity has yet arrived at; but, I suppose,
a less spiritual one, or perhaps I should say external
accompaniments, affecting more palpably the senses and imagination,
are wholesome and necessary to the cultivation and preservation of
the religious sentiment in some minds. Catholicism was the faith of
the chivalrous times, of the poetical times, of times when the
creative faculty of man poured forth in since unknown abundance
masterpieces of every kind of beauty, as manifestations of the
pious and devout enthusiasm. Protestantism is undoubtedly the faith
of these times; a denying faith, a rejecting creed, a questioning
belief, its evil seems essentially to coincide with the worst
tendency of the present age, but its good seems to me positive and
unconditional, independent of time or circumstance; the best, in
that kind, that the believing necessity in our nature has yet
attained. Rightly understood and lived up to, the only service of
God which is intellectual freedom, as all His service, lived up to,
under what creed soever, is moral freedom. And it is in some sort
in spite of myself that I say this, for my fancy delights in all
the devout and poetical legendary conceptions which the stern hand
of reason has stripped from our altars.
F. A. K.
I dressed my Juliet the last time I acted it, exactly after your
little sketch of her....
_Thursday._--Worked at "The Star of Seville." In the evening the
play was "Isabella;" the house very bad. I played very well. The
Rajah Ramahun Roy was in the Duke of Devonshire's box, and went
into fits of crying, poor man!
_Friday, 23d._--It is all too true; John has had a letter from
Spain; they have all been taken and shot. I felt frozen when I
heard the terrible news. Poor Torrijos! And yet I suppose it is
better so: he would only have lived to bitter disappointment, and
the despairing conviction that the spirit he appealed to did not
animate one human being in his deplorable and degenerate land. A
young Englishman, of the name of Boyd, John's sometime friend and
companion, was taken and shot with the rest: it choked me to think
of his parents, his brothers and sisters. Surely God has been most
merciful to us in sparing us such an anguish, and bringing our
wanderer home before this day of doom. How I thought of Richard
Trench and his people! John did not seem to me to be violently
affected, though his first exclamation was one of sharp and bitter
pain: I suppose he must, long ere this, have felt that there could
be no other end to this utterly hopeless attempt.... In the
afternoon I called on Mrs. Norton, who is always to me
astonishingly beautiful. The baby was asleep, and so I could not
see it, but Spencer has grown into a very fine child.
_Monday, 26th._--Went to see how the pantomime did. I did not think
it very amusing, but there was an enchanting little girl (Miss
Poole) who did Tom Thumb, and whose attitudes in her armor were
most of them copied from the antique, and really beautiful. Poor
dear, bright little thing!
My father was in bed when we returned; I went and saw him for a
minute, to tell him how the pantomime had succeeded; it ended with
some wonderful tight-rope dancing by an exceedingly steady,
graceful man; but it turned me perfectly sick, and I hate all those
sort of things.
You shall not entreat in vain, neither shall you have a short
answer because you have an immediate one.... I should not have
answered you so instantaneously, but that my last account of my
dear father was so bad that I cannot delay telling you how much
better he is, and how grateful we all are for his restoration to
health. He is released from his bed, of which he must be heartily
sick, and comes down to breakfast at the usual time: of course he
is still weak and low, and wretchedly thin, but we trust a little
time will bring back good spirits and good looks, though after such
a terrible attack I fear it will be long before his constitution
recovers its former strength, if indeed it ever does. He talks of
resuming his labors at the theater next Monday week. Oh! my dear
H----, what a dreadful season of anxiety this has been! but, thank
God, it is past.
I had intended that this letter should go to you to-day, but you
will forgive the delay of a day in my finishing it when I tell you
that I have some hope of its producing a commission for Henry. Sir
John Macdonald, at whose house you dined in the summer with my
mother, is now adjutant-general, and I know not what besides; and
after my mother and myself had expended all our eloquence in
winding up my father's mind to resolve upon the army as Henry's
profession, she thought the next best thing I could do would be to
attack Lady Macdonald and secure the general's interest. They
happened to call this afternoon, and your letter, my dear H----,
has been left unfinished till past post-time, while I was
soliciting this favor, which I have every hope we shall obtain.
Lady Macdonald is extremely kind and good-natured, and I am sure
will exert herself to serve us, and if this can be accomplished I
shall be haunted by one anxiety the less.
I have had a holiday this week, and every now and then have written
a word or two of "La Estrella;" it will never be done, and when it
is it will be the horridest trash that ever was done; but I will
let you have the pleasure of reading it, I promise you. On Monday I
play that favorite detestation of mine, Euphrasia; the Monday after
that my father hopes to be able for Mercutio, and I return to
Juliet. By the by, you say Bianca is my best part, and I think my
Juliet is better; I am not sure that there is not some kindred in
the characters. We are going to bring out a play of Lord Francis',
translated from the French, a sort of melodrama in blank verse, in
which I have to act a part that I cannot do the least in the world,
but of course that doesn't signify.
Have you seen in the papers that poor Torrijos and his little band,
consisting of sixty men, several of whom John knew well, have been
lured into the interior of Spain, and there taken prisoners and
shot? This news has shocked us all dreadfully, especially poor
John. You may imagine how grateful we are that he is now among us,
instead of having fallen a victim to his chimerical enthusiasm. I
hardly know how to deplore the event for Torrijos himself: death
has spared him the bitter disappointment of at last being convinced
that the people he would have made free are willing slaves, and
that the time when Spain is to lift herself up from the dust has
not yet come.
I went the other day with John to the Angerstein Gallery.... The
delight I find in a fine painting is one of the greatest and most
enduring pleasures I have; my mind retains the impression so long
and so very vividly.... Good-by, my dearest H----.
The day seemed beautifully fine, and my father and mother took, a
drive, while Henry and I rode, that my father might see the horse I
had bought for him; but it was bitterly cold, and I could not make
my mare trot, so she cantered and I froze. Mr. Power was there, on
that lovely horse of his. I think the Park will become bad company,
it is so full of the player folk. Frederick Byng called, and I like
him, so I went and sat with him and my father and mother in the
library till time to dress for dinner. After dinner wrote "The Star
of Seville." I have got into conceit with it again, and so poor,
dear, unfortunate Dall coming in while I was working at it, I
seized hold of her, like the Ancient Mariner of the miserable
"Wedding Guest," and compelled her, in spite of her outcries, to
sit down, and then, though she very wisely went fast asleep, I read
it to her till tea-time.
My mother wished to sit up and see the New Year in, and so we
played quadrille till they sat down to supper, which had been
ordered for the vigil, and I went fast asleep. At twelve o'clock
kisses and good wishes went round, and we were all very merry, in
spite of which I once or twice felt a sudden rush of hot tears into
my eyes. All the hours of last year are gone, standing at the bar
of Heaven, our witnesses or accusers: the evil done, the good left
undone, the opportunities vouchsafed and neglected, the warnings
given and unheeded, the talents lent and unworthily or not
employed, they are gone from us for ever! forever! and we make
merry over the flight of Time! O Time! our dearest friend! how is
it that we part so carelessly from you, who never can return to
us?... A New Year....
_Thursday 5th._-- ... Wrote all the afternoon. Mr. Byng dined with
us and stayed till one o'clock, having reduced my mother to
silence, and my father to sleep, John to snuff, and Henry and I to
playing (_sotto voce_) "What's my thought like?" to keep ourselves
from tumbling off the perch.
_Thursday, 19th._-- ... Henry and I rode in the park, and though
the day was detestable, it did me good. As we were walking the
horses round by Kensington Gardens, Lord John Russell, peering out
of voluminous wrappers, joined us. Certainly that small,
sharp-visaged gentleman does not give much outward and visible sign
of the inward and spiritual power he possesses and wields over this
realm of England just now. His bodily presence might almost be
described as St. Paul's. This turner inside out and upside down of
our body, social and political, this hero of reform, one of the
ablest men in England--I suppose in Europe--he rode with us for a
long time, and I thought how H---- would have envied me this
conversation with her idol.... In the evening, at the theater,
though I had gone over my part before going there, for the first
time in my play-house experience I was _out_ on the stage. I
stopped short in the middle of one of my speeches, thinking I had
finished it, whereas I had not given Mr. Warde the cue he was to
reply to. How disgraceful!... After the play, my mother called for
us in the carriage, and we went to Lady Dacre's, and had a pleasant
party enough.... C---- G---- was there, with her mother (the clever
and accomplished authoress of several so-called fashionable novels,
which had great popularity in their day). Miss G----, now Lady
E---- T----, used to be called by us "la Dame Blanche," on account
of the dazzling fairness of her complexion. She was very brilliant
and amusing, and I remember her saying to one of her admirers one
evening, when her snowy neck and shoulders were shining in all the
unveiled beauty of full dress, "Oh, go away, P----, you _tan_ me."
(The gentleman had a shock head of fiery-red hair.)
_Sunday, 22d._-- ... After church looked over the critiques in the
Sunday papers on "Katharine of Cleves." Some of them were too
good-natured, some too ill-natured. The _Spectator_ was exceedingly
amusing.
By far the best account and criticism of this piece is Mr. Barham's
metrical report of it in the "Ingoldsby Legends." Lord Francis
himself used to quote with delight, "She didn't mind death, but she
couldn't bear pinching." ...
Thank you, my dearest H----, for your last delightful letter, which
I should have answered before, but for the production of a new
piece at Covent Garden, which has taken up all my time for the last
week in rehearsals, and trying on dresses and the innumerable and
invariable etceteras of a new play and part. It has been highly
successful, and I think is likely to bring money to our treasury,
which is _the_ consummation most devoutly to be wished. It is
nothing more than an interesting melodrama, with the advantage of
being written in gentlemanly (noblemanly?) blank verse instead of
turgid prose, and being acted by the principal instead of the
secondary members of the company. This will suffice to make you
appreciate my satisfaction, when I am complimented upon my acting
in it, and you will sympathize with the shout of laughter my father
and myself indulged in in the park the other day, when Lord John
Russell, who was riding with us, told us that a young lady of his
acquaintance had assured him that "Katharine of Cleves" (the name
of the piece) was vastly more interesting than any thing
Shakespeare had ever written.
I quite agree with you that such books as Mr. Hope's (on the nature
and immortality of the soul, the precise title of which I have
forgotten) "may be useless," and sometimes, indeed, worse. If a
person has nothing better to do than count the sea sands or fill
the old bottomless tub of the Danaides, they may be excused for
devoting their time and wits to such riddles, perhaps. But when the
mind has positive, practical work to perform, and time keeps
bringing _all the time_ specific duties, or when, as in your case,
a predisposition to vague speculation is the intellectual besetting
sin, I think _addition_ to such subjects to be avoided. I suppose
all human beings have, in some shape or degree, the desire for that
knowledge which is still the growth of the forbidden tree of
Paradise, and the lust for which inevitably thrusts us against the
bars of the material life in which we are consigned; but to give up
one's time to writing and reading elaborate theories of a past and
future which we may conceive to exist, but of the existence of
which it is impossible we should achieve _any_ proof, much less any
detailed knowledge, appears to me an unprofitable and
unsatisfactory misuse of time and talent....
I rode in the park with John. My mare was ill, and Mew (the
stable-keeper) had sent me one of his horses, a great awkward
brute, who, after jolting me well up Oxford Street, no sooner
entered the park than he bolted down the drive as fast as legs
could carry him, John following afar off. In Rotten Row we were
joined by young T----.... When I thought the devil was a little
worked out of my horse, I raised him to a canter again, whereupon
scamper the second--I like a flash of lightning, they after me as
well as they could. John would not force my father's horse, but Mr.
T----, whose horse was a thoroughbred hunter, managed to keep up
with me, but lamed his horse in so doing. We then walked soberly
round the park and saw our friends and acquaintances, and, turning
down the drive, I determined once more to try my horse's
disposition, whereupon off he went again, like a shot, leaving John
far behind. I flitted down Rotten Row like Faust on the demon
horse, and as I drew up and turned about I heard, "Well, that woman
does ride well," which was all, whoever said it, knew of the
matter; whereas, in my mad career, I had passed Fozzard, who shook
his head lamentably at John, exclaiming, "Oh, Miss Fanny! Miss
Fanny!" After this last satisfactory experiment I made no more, and
we cut short our ride on account of my unmanageable steed....
At the theater the play was "The School for Scandal." A---- F----
was there, with young Sheridan; I hope the latter approved of my
method of speaking the speeches of his witty great-grandfather. I
played well, though the audience was dull and didn't help me. Mary
and William Harness supped with us....
In the afternoon went to Lady Dacre's.... She read me the first act
of a little piece she has been writing; while listening to her I
was struck as I never had been before with the great beauty of her
countenance, and its very varied and striking expression.... At
home spent my time in reading Shelley. How wonderful and beautiful
the "Prometheus" is! The unguessed heavens and earth and sea are so
many storehouses from which Shelley brings gorgeous heaps of
treasure and piles them up in words like jewels. I read "The
Sensitive Plant" and "Rosalind and Helen." As for the
latter--powerful enough, certainly--it gives me bodily aches to
read such poetry.
_Wednesday, February 1st._-- ... Drove out with Henry in the new
carriage. It is very handsome, but by no means as convenient or
capacious as our old rumble. Oh, these vanities! How we sacrifice
everything to them!
_Thursday, 2d._ ... Rode out with my father. The whole world was
abroad in the sunshine, like so many flies. My mother was walking
with John and Henry, and Henry Greville. I should like to tell him
two words of my mind on the subject of lending "Notre Dame de
Paris" about to women. At any rate, we vulgar females are not as
much accustomed to mental dram-drinking as his fine-lady friends,
and don't stand that sort of thing so well.... In the evening we
went to the theater to see "The Haunted Tower." Youth and first
impressions are wonderful magicians. (I forget whether the music of
this piece was by Storace or Michael Kelly.) This was an opera
which I had heard my father and mother talk of forever. I went full
of expectation accordingly, and was entirely disappointed. The
meagerness and triteness of the music and piece astonished me.
After the full orchestral accompaniments, the richly harmonized
concerted pieces and exquisite melodies lavished on us in our
modern operas, these simple airs and their choruses and mean
finales produce an effect from their poverty of absolute musical
starvation.
You are coming to England, and you will certainly not do so again
without coming to us. My father and mother, you know, speak by me
when I assure you that a visit from you would give us all the
greatest pleasure.... Do not come late in the season to us, because
at present we do not know whether June or July may take us out of
town.... With my scheme of going to America, I think I can look the
future courageously in the face. It is something to hold one's
fortune in one's own hands; if the worst comes to the worst it is
but another year's drudgery, and the whereabouts really matters
little.... We hear that the cholera is in Edinburgh. I cannot help
thinking with the deepest anxiety of those I love there, and I
imagine with sorrow that beautiful, noble city, those breezy hills,
those fresh, sea-weedy shores and coasts breathed upon by that dire
pestilence. The city of the winds, where the purifying currents of
keen air sweep through every thoroughfare and eddy round every
corner--perched up so high upon her rocky throne, she seems to sit
in a freer, finer atmosphere than all the world beside! (I appear,
in my enthusiastic love for Edinburgh, to have forgotten those
Immonderraze, the wynds and closes of the old town.) I hope the
report may not prove true, though from a letter I have received
from my cousin Sally (Siddons) the plague is certainly within six
miles of them. She writes very rationally about it, and I can
scarce forbear superstitiously believing that God's mercy will
especially protect those who are among His most devoted and dutiful
children....
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
The reason for bringing out "Francis I." now is that Milman has
undertaken to review it in the next _Quarterly_, and Murray wishes
the production of the play at the theater to be simultaneous with
the publication of the _Review_.
My wrath and annoyance upon the subject have subsided, and I have
now taken refuge with restored equanimity in my "cannot help it."
Certainly I said and did all I could to hinder it.
I do not feel at all nervous about the fate of the play--no English
public will damn an attempt of that description, however much it
may deserve it; and paradoxical as it may sound, a London audience,
composed as it for the most part is of pretty rough, coarse, and
hard particles, makes up a most soft-hearted and good-natured
whole, and invariably in the instance of a new actor or a new
piece--whatever partial private ill will may wish to do--the
majority of the spectators is inclined to patience and indulgence.
I do not mean that I shall not turn exceedingly sick when I come to
set my foot upon the stage that night; but it will only be with a
slight increase of the alarm which I undergo with every new part.
My poor mother will be the person to be pitied; I wish she would
take an opiate and go to bed, instead of to the theater that
night....
I was at a party last night where I met Lord Hill (then commander
of the forces), who had himself presented to me, and who renewed in
person the promise he had sent me through Sir John Macdonald (who
was adjutant-general), to exert and interest himself to the utmost
of his power about Henry's commission.
John has finished his Anglo-Saxon book, and Murray has undertaken
to publish it for him, offering at the same time to share with him
whatever profits may accrue from it. The work is of a nature which
cannot give either a quick or considerable return; but the offer,
like all Mr. Murray's dealings with me, is very kind and liberal,
for a publisher is not easily found any more than readers for such
matter. (The book was the Anglo-Saxon Poem of Beowulf.) He asked me
to let him publish "Francis I.," as it is to be acted, without the
fifth act, but this I would not consent to. I have rather an
affection for my last scene in the Certoso at Pavia, with the monks
singing the "De Profundis" while the battle was going on, and the
king being brought in a prisoner and making the response to the
psalm--which is all historically true....
I must bid you good-by, dear, as I am going to the Angerstein
Gallery with the Fitzhughs....
_Sunday, 5th._-- ... When I came back from church I found Campbell
with my mother, scraping up information about Mrs. Siddons for his
and her "life." I left him with her, and when I came back he was
gone, and in his place, as if he had turned into her, sat Mrs.
Fitzgerald in a green velvet gown trimmed with sables, which
excited my admiration and envy. I should like to have been living
in the days and countries where persons, as a mark of favor, took
off their dress and threw it on your shoulders. How pleasant it
would have been!...
_Saturday, 11th._-- ... A long walk with my mother, and a long talk
about Shakespeare, especially about the beauty of his songs....
_Sunday, 10th._-- ... In the evening I read Daru. What fun that
riotous old Pope Julius is! Poor Gaston de Foix! It was young to
leave life and such well-begun fame. The extracts from Bayard's
life enchant me. I am glad to get among my old acquaintance again.
Mr. Harness came in rather late and said all manner of kind things
about "The Star of Seville," but I was thinking about his play all
the while; it does not seem to me that the management is treating
him well. If it does not suit the interests of the theater to bring
it out now, he surely should be told so, and not kept in a state of
suspense, which cannot be delightful to any author, however little
of an egotist he may be.
_Friday, 24th._-- ... Dined with the Fitzhughs, and after dinner
proceeded to the Adelphi, where we went to see "Victorine," which I
liked very much. Mrs. Yates acted admirably the whole of it, but
more particularly that part where she is old and in distress and
degradation. There was a dreary look of uncomplaining misery about
her, an appearance as of habitual want and sorrow and suffering, a
heavy, slow, subdued, broken deportment, and a way of speaking that
was excellent and was what struck me most in her performance, for
the end is sure to be so effective that she shares half her merit
there with the situation. Reeve is funny beyond anything; his face
is the most humorous mask I ever saw in my life. I think him much
more comical than Liston. The carriage was not come at the end of
the first piece, so we had to wait through part of "Robert the
Devil" (given at last, such was its popularity, at every theater in
London). Of course, after our own grand _diablerie_, it did not
strike me except as being wonderfully well done, considering the
size and means of their little stage. [Yates made a most capital
fiend: I should not like a bit to be Mrs Yates after seeing him
look that part so perfectly.]
I am greatly worried and annoyed about my play. The more I see and
hear of it the stronger my perception grows of its defects, which,
I think, are rendered even more glaring by the curtailments and
alterations necessary for its representation; and the whole thing
distresses me as much as such a thing can. I send you the cast of
the principal characters for the instruction of my Ardgillan
friends, by whose interest about it I am much gratified. My father
is to be De Bourbon; John Mason, the king; Mr. Warde, the monk; Mr.
Bennett, Laval. These are the principal men's parts. I act the
queen-mother; Miss Taylor, Margaret de Valois; and Miss Tree,
Fran�oise de Foix.
Arthur Hallam dined with us. I am not sure that I do not like him
the best of all John's friends. Besides being so clever, he is so
gentle, charming, and winning. At half-past ten went to Mrs.
Norton's. My father, who had received a summons from the Court of
Chancery, did not come.... It was a very fine, and rather dull,
party.... Mrs. Norton looks as if she were made of precious stones,
diamonds, emeralds, rubies, sapphires; she is radiant with beauty.
And so, in a different way, is that vision of a sister of hers
(Georgiana Sheridan, Lady St. Maur, Duchess of Somerset, and Queen
of Beauty), with her waxen, round, white arms, and eyes streaming
with soft brilliancy, like fountains by moonlight. To look at two
such creatures for an hour is enough to make the world brighter for
several hours.
I rode with Henry, and after I got home told my father that his
horse was quite well, and would be fit for his use on Saturday. He
replied sadly that his horse must be sold, for that from the first,
though he had not liked to vex me by saying so, it was an expense
he could not conscientiously afford. I had expected this, and
certainly, when from day to day a man may be obliged to declare
himself insolvent, keeping a horse does seem rather absurd. He then
went on to speak about the ruin that is falling upon us; and dismal
enough it is to stand under the crumbling fabric we have spent
having and living, body, substance, and all but soul, to prop, and
see that it must inevitably fall and crush us presently. Yet from
my earliest childhood I remember this has been hanging over us. I
have heard it foretold, I have known it expected, and there is no
reason why it should now take any of us by surprise, or strike us
with sudden dismay. Thank God, our means of existence lie within
ourselves; while health and strength are vouchsafed to us there is
no need to despond. It is very hard and sad to be come so far on in
life, or rather so far into age, as my father is, without any hope
of support for himself and my mother but toil, and that of the
severest kind; but God is merciful. He has hitherto cared for us,
as He cares for all His creatures, and He will not forsake us if we
do not forsake Him or ourselves.... My father and I need scarcely
remain without engagements, either in London or the provinces....
If our salaries are smaller, so must our expenses be. The house
must go, the carriage must go, the horses must go, and yet we may
be sufficiently comfortable and very happy--unless, indeed, we have
to go to America, and that will be dreadful.... We are yet all
stout and strong, and we are yet altogether. It is pitiful to see
how my father still clings to that theater. Is it because? the art
he loves, once had its noblest dwelling there? Is it because his
own name and the names of his brother and sister are graven, as it
were, on its very stones? Does he think he could not act in a
smaller theater? What can, in spite of his interest, make him so
loth to leave that ponderous ruin? Even to-day, after summing up
all the sorrow and care and toil, and waste of life and fortune
which that concern has cost his brother, himself, and all of us, he
exclaimed, "Oh, if I had but �10,000, I could set it all right
again, even now!" My mother and I actually stared at this
infatuation. If I had twenty, or a hundred thousand pounds, not one
farthing would I give to the redeeming of that fatal millstone,
which cannot be raised, but will infallibly drag everything tied to
it down to the level of its own destruction. The past is past, and
for the future we must think and act as speedily as we may. If our
salaries are half what they are now we need not starve; and, as
long as God keeps us in health of body and mind, nothing need
signify, provided we are not obliged to separate and go off to that
dreadful America.
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
_Monday, 5th._--Got ready things for the theater, and went over my
part.... In the afternoon, I hoped to hear the result of the
meeting that had been held by the creditors of the theater; but my
father had been obliged to leave it before anything was settled,
and did not know what had been the termination of the consultation.
At the theater the house was not good, neither was my acting. My
father acted admirably, to my amazement: for he has been in a most
wretched state of depression for the last week, and to-day at
dinner his face looked drawn and haggard and absolutely
lead-colored.
_Thursday, 8th._-- ... In the evening acted Beatrice. The house was
very good, which I was delighted to see. The Harnesses supped with
us. While we were at supper, the _Quarterly Review_ came from
Murray's, and I read the article on "Francis I." aloud to them. It
is very "handsome," and I should think must satisfy my most
unreasonable friends. It more than satisfied me, for it made me out
a great deal cleverer than ever I thought I was, or ever, I am
afraid, shall be.
and then bursts forth into her furious vituperation of those whose
treachery has frustrated his natural claim to greatness. The woman,
too, who in the utmost bitterness of disappointment, in the utter
helplessness and desolation of betrayal, and the prostration of
anguish and despair, calls on the earth, not for a shelter, not for
a grave, or for a resting-place, but for a throne, is surely
royally ambitious, a queen more than anything else. Mrs. Siddons's
conception of Lady Macbeth is very beautiful, and I was
particularly struck by her imagination of her outward woman: the
deep blue eyes, the fair hair and fair skin of the northern woman
(though, by the by, Lady Macbeth is a Highlander--I suppose a Celt;
and they are a dark race); the frail feminine form and delicate
character of beauty, which, united to that undaunted mettle which
her husband pays homage to in her, constituted a complex spell, at
once soft and strong, sweet and powerful, and seemed to me a very
original idea. My aunt makes a curious suggestion, supported only
by her own conviction, for which, however, she demonstrates no
grounds, that in the banquet scene Lady Macbeth sees Banquo's ghost
at the same time Macbeth does. It is very presumptuous in me to
differ from her who has made such a wonderful study of this part,
but it seems to me that this would make Lady Macbeth all but
superhuman; and in the scene with her husband that precedes the
banquet, Macbeth's words to her give me to understand that she is
entirely innocent of the knowledge even of his crime.
My friend, Miss S----, came and paid me a long visit, during which my
play of "Francis I." and Knowles's play of "The Hunchback" were
produced, and it was finally settled that Covent Garden should be let to
the French manager and entrepreneur, Laporte, and that my father and
myself should leave England, and go for two years to America.
_Friday, 15th._-- ... Almost at our very door met old Lady Cork,
who was coming to see us: We stopped our carriages, and had a
bawling conversation through the windows respecting my plans, past,
present, and to come, highly edifying, doubtless, to the whole
neighborhood, and which ended by her ladyship shrieking out to me
that I was "a supernatural creature" in a tone which must have made
the mummies and other strange sojourners in the adjacent British
Museum jump again.... In the evening, at the theater, the play was
"The Hunchback," for Knowles's benefit, and the house was not good,
which I do think is a shame. I played well, though Miss Taylor
disconcerted me by coming so near me in her second scene that I
gave her a real slap in the face, which I was very sorry for,
though she deserved it. After the play, Mr. Harness, Mrs. Clarke,
and Miss James supped with us; and after supper, I dressed for a
ball at the G----s', ... and much I wondered what call I had to be
at a ball, except that the givers of this festival are kind and
good friends of ours, and are fond of me, and I of them. But I was
not very merry at their ball for all that. We came home at half
past two, which is called "very early." Mr. Bacon was there (editor
of the _Times_, who married my cousin, Fanny Twiss), but I had no
chance to speak to him, which I was sorry for, as I like his looks,
and I liked his books: the first are good, and the latter are
clever. I cried all the way home, which is a cheerful way of
returning from a ball.
_Saturday, 16th._-- ... Mrs. Clarke, Miss James, the Messrs. M----,
and Alfred Tennyson dined with us. I am always a little
disappointed with the exterior of our poet when I look at him, in
spite of his eyes, which are very fine; but his head and face,
striking and dignified as they are, are almost too ponderous and
massive for beauty in so young a man; and every now and then there
is a slightly sarcastic expression about his mouth that almost
frightens me, in spite of his shy manner and habitual silence. But,
after all, it is delightful to see and be with any one that one
admires and loves for what he has done, as I do him. Mr. Harness
came in the evening. He is excellent, and I am very fond of him.
They all went away about twelve.
_Monday, 18th._-- ... At the theater, in the evening, the house was
good, and I played pretty fairly.... At supper my father read us
his examination before the committee of the House of Commons about
this minor theater business. Of course, though every word he says
upon the subject is gospel truth, it will only pass for the partial
testimony of a person deeply interested in his own monopoly.
[That was the last time I ever acted in the Covent Garden my uncle John
built; where he and my aunt took leave of the stage, and I made my first
entrance upon it. It was soon after altered and enlarged, and turned
into an opera-house; eventually it was burnt down, and so nothing
remains of it.]
The Harnesses and their friend Mr. F---- supped with us. Mr.
Harness talked all sorts of things to try and cheer me; he labored
hard to prove to me that the world was good and happy, but only
succeeded in convincing me that he was the one, and deserved to be
the other.
_Sunday, July 1st._-- ... We dined at Mr. Combe's, and had a very
pleasant dinner, but unluckily, owing to a stupid servant's
mistake, my old friend Mr. McLaren, who had been invited to meet
me, did not come. After dinner there was a tremendous discussion
about Shakespeare, but I do not think these men knew anything about
him. I talked myself into a fever, and ended, with great modesty
and propriety, by disabling all their judgments, at which piece of
impertinence they naturally laughed very heartily.
I had just left my father at the window that overlooks the Forth,
watching my poor mother's ship sailing away to England, when I
received your letter; and it is impossible to imagine a sorer,
sadder heart than that with which I greeted it.... Thank you for
the pains you are taking about your picture for me; crammed with
occupation as my time is here, I would have done the same for you,
but that I think in Lawrence's print you have the best and likest
thing you can have of me.... I cannot tell you at what hour we
shall reach Liverpool, but it will be very early on Monday
morning.... I am glad you have not deferred sitting for your
picture till you came to Liverpool, for it would have encroached
much upon our time together. I remember when I returned from
abroad, a school-girl, I thought I had forgotten my mother's face.
This copy of yours will save me from that nonsensical morbid
feeling, and you will surely not forget mine.... You bid me, if
anything should go ill with me, summon you across the Atlantic.
Alas! dear H----, you forget that before a letter from that other
world can reach this, more than a month must have elapsed, and the
writer may no longer be in either. You say you hope I may return a
new being; and I have no doubt my health will be benefited, and my
spirits revived by change of external objects; but oh, how dreary
it all is now! You bid me cheer my father when my mother shall have
left us, without knowing that she is already gone. I make every
exertion that duty and affection can prompt; but, you know, it is
my nature rather to absorb the sorrow of others than to assist them
in throwing it off; and when one's own heart is all but frozen, one
knows not where to find warmth to impart to those who are shivering
with misery beside one.... I have left myself scarcely any room to
tell you of my present life. I work very hard, rehearsing every
morning and acting every night, and spending the intervening time
in long farewell rides round this most beautiful and beloved
Edinburgh. Mr. Combe says I am wearing myself out, body and mind;
but I am already looking better, and less thin, than when I left
London; and besides, I shall presently have a longer rest--holiday
I cannot call it--on board ship than I have had for the last three
years. We acted "Francis I." here last night, for the first time;
and I am sure that, mingled with the applause, I heard very
distinct hissing; whether addressed to the acting, which was some
of it execrable, or to the play itself, which I think quite
deserving of such a demonstration, I know not.... You know my
opinion of the piece; and as, with the exception of the two parts
of De Bourbon and the Friar, and not excepting my own, it really
was vilely acted, hissing did not appear to me an unnatural
proceeding, though perhaps, under the circumstances, not altogether
a courteous one on the part of the modern Athenians. I tell you
this, because what else have I to tell you, but that I am your ever
affectionate
F. A. K.
_Tuesday, 10th._--At half-past twelve rode out with Liston and his
daughter, Mr. Murray, and Allen (since Sir William, the celebrated
artist, friend, and painter, of Walter Scott and his family).... In
the evening, at the theater, the house was very full, and I acted
very well, though I was so tired that I could hardly stand, and
every bone in my body ached with my hard morning's ride. While I
was sitting in the greenroom, Mr. Wilson came in, and it warmed my
heart to see a Covent Garden face. He tells me Laporte is giving
concerts in the poor old playhouse: well, good luck attend him,
poor man (though I know it won't, for "there's nae luck about that
house, there's nae luck at a'"). Walter Scott has reached
Edinburgh, and starts for Abbotsford to-morrow: I am glad he has
come back to die in his own country, in his own home, surrounded by
the familiar objects his eyes have loved to look upon, and by the
hearts of his countrymen, and the prayers, the blessings, the
gratitude, and the love they owe him. All Europe will mourn his
death; and for years to come every man born on this soil will be
proud, for his sake, to call himself a Scotchman.
_Saturday, 14th._--My last day in Edinburgh for two years; and who
can tell for how many more? At eleven o'clock, Mr. Murray, Mr.
Allen, Mr. Byrne, and myself sallied forth on horseback toward the
Pentlands, having obtained half an hour's grace off dinner-time, in
order to get to Habbies How. We went out by the Links, and up steep
rises over a white and dusty road, with a flaring stone dyke on
each side, and neither tree nor bush to shelter us from the
scorching sunlight till we came to Woodhouseleigh, the haunted walk
of a white specter, who, it seems, was fond of the shade, for her
favorite promenade was an avenue overarched with the green arms of
noble old elm trees; and we blessed the welcome shelter of the
Ghost's Haunt.... A cloud fell over all our spirits as we rode away
from this enchanting spot, and Mr. Murray, pointing to the sprig of
heather I had put in my habit, said they would establish an Order
of Knighthood, of which the badge should be a heather spray, and
they three the members, and I the patroness; that they would meet
and drink my health on the 14th of July, and on my birthday, every
year till I returned; and a solemn agreement was made by all
parties that whenever I did return and summoned my worthies, we
should again adjourn together to the glen in the Pentlands. When we
reached home, Mr. Allen, who cannot endure a formal parting, shook
hands with me and bade me good-by as I dismounted, as if we were to
ride again to-morrow. [And I never saw him again. Peace be with
him! He was a most amiable and charming companion, and during these
days of friendly intimacy, his conversation interested and
instructed me, and his poetical feeling of Nature, and placid,
unruffled serenity, added much to the pleasure of those delightful
rides.] ... At the theater the play was "The Provoked Husband," for
my benefit; the house was very fine, and I played pretty well.
After it was over, the audience shouted and clamored for my father,
who came and said a few words of our sorrow to leave their
beautiful city.... Mrs. Harry, Lizzie, and I were in my
dressing-room, crying in sad silence, and vainly endeavoring to
control our emotion. Presently my father came hurriedly in, and
folding them both in his arms, just uttered in a broken voice,
"Good-by! God bless you!" and I, embracing my dear friends for the
last time, followed him out of the room. It is not the time only
that must elapse before I can see her again, it is the terrible
distance, the slowness and uncertainty of communication; it is that
dreadful America.
_Sunday, 22d, Liverpool._--I did not think there was such another
day in store for me as this. I thought all was past and over, and
had forgotten the last drop in the bitter cup.... The day was
bitter cold, and we were obliged to have a fire.
I fear you are either anxious or vexed, or perhaps both, about the
arrival of your books, and my non-acknowledgment of them. They
reached me in all safety, and but for the many occupations which
swallow up my time would have been duly receipted ere this. Thank
you very much for them, for they are very elegant outside, and the
dedication page, with which I should have been most ungracious to
find any fault. The little sketch on that leaf differs from the
design you had described to me some time ago, and I felt the full
meaning of the difference. I read through your preface all in a
breath; there are many parts of it which have often been matters of
discussion between us, and I believe you know how cordially I
coincide with most of the views expressed in it. The only point in
your preliminary chapter on which I do not agree with you is the
passage in which you say that humor is, of necessity and in its
very essence, vulgar. I differ entirely with you here. I think
humor is very often closely allied to poetry; not only a large
element in highly poetic minds, which surely refutes your position,
but kindred to the highest and deepest order of imagination, and
frequently eminently fanciful and graceful in its peculiar
manifestations. However, I cannot now make leisure to write about
this, but while I read it I scored the passage as one from which I
dissented. That, however, of course does not establish its fallacy;
but I think, had I time, I could convince you of it. I acted Juliet
on Wednesday, and read your analysis of it before doing so. Oh,
could you but have seen and heard my Romeo!... I am sure it is just
as well that an actress on the English stage at the present day
should not have too distinct a vision of the beings Shakespeare
intended to realize, or she might be induced, like the unfortunate
heroine of the song, to "hang herself in her garters." To be sure
there is always my expedient to resort to, of acting to a wooden
vase; you know I had one put upon my balcony, in "Romeo and
Juliet," at Covent Garden, to assist Mr. Abbott in drawing forth
the expression of my sentiments. I have been reading over Portia
to-day; she is still my dream of ladies, my pearl of womanhood....
I must close this letter, for I have many more to write to-night,
and it is already late. Once more, thank you very much for your
book, and believe me,
But when I first went to America, steam had not shortened the passage of
that formidable barrier between world and world. A month, and not a
week, was the shortest and most favorable voyage that could be looked
for. Few men, and hardly any women, undertook it as a mere matter of
pleasure or curiosity; and though affairs of importance, of course, drew
people from one shore to the other, and the stream of emigration had
already set steadily westward, American and European tourists had not
begun to cross each other by thousands on the high seas in search of
health or amusement.
We are within three hours' sail of New York, having greeted the
first corner of Long Island (the first land we saw) yesterday
morning; but we are becalmed, and the sun shines so bright, and the
air is so warm and breathless, that we seem to have every chance of
lying here for the next--Heaven knows how long! In point of time,
you see, our voyage has been very prosperous, and I am surprised
that we have made such good progress, for the weather has been
squally, with constant head-winds. I do not think we have had, in
all, six days of fair wind, so that we have no reason whatever to
complain of our advance, having come thus far in thirty-two days.
You bade me write to you by ships passing us, but though we have
encountered several bound eastward, we only hailed them without
lying to; notwithstanding which, about a fortnight ago, on hearing
that a vessel was about to pass us, I wrote you a scrawl, which
none but you could have made out (so the fishes won't profit much
by it), and a kind fellow-passenger undertook to throw it from our
ship to the other as it passed us. She came alongside very rapidly,
and though he flung with great force and good aim, the distance was
too great, and my poor little missive fell into the black sea
within twenty feet of its destination. I could not help crying to
think that those words from my heart, that would have gladdened
yours, should go down into that cold, inky water.... I pray to God
that we may return to England, but I am possessed with a dread that
I never shall....
I have been called away from this letter by one of those little
incidents which Heaven in its mercy sends to break the monotony of
a sea-voyage. Ever since daybreak this morning an English brig has
been standing at a considerable distance behind us. About an hour
ago we went on deck to watch the approach of a boat which they were
sending off in our direction. The distance was about five miles,
and the men had a hard pull in the broiling heat. When they came on
board, you should have seen how we all clustered about them. The
ship was a merchantman from Bristol, bound to New York; she had
been out eleven weeks, her provisions were beginning to run short,
and the crew was on allowance. Our captain, who is a gentleman,
furnished them with flour, tea, sugar, porter, cold tongue, ham,
eggs, etc., etc. The men remained about half an hour on board, and
as they were remanning their boat we saw a whole cargo of eatables
carried to it from our steerage passengers. You know that these are
always poor people, who are often barely supplied themselves with
necessaries for their voyage. The poor are almost invariably kind
and compassionate to one another, and Gaffer Gray is half right
when he says--
They (the men from the brig) gave us news from Halifax, where they
had put in. The cholera had been in Boston, Philadelphia,
Baltimore, and New York; the latter town was almost deserted, and
the people flying in numbers from the others. This was rather bad
news to us, who were going thither to find audiences (if possible
not few, whether fit or not), but it was awful to such as were
going back to their homes and families. I looked at the anxious
faces gathered round our informer, and thought how the poor hearts
were flying, in terrible anticipation of the worst, to the nests
where they had left their dear ones, and eagerly counting every
precious head in the homes over which so black a cloud of doom had
gathered in their absence.... My father, though a bad sailor, and
suffering occasionally a good deal, has, upon the whole, borne the
voyage well. Poor dear Dall has been the greatest wretch on board;
she has been perfectly miserable the whole time. It has made me
very unhappy, for she has come away from those she loves very
dearly on my account, and I cannot but feel sad to see that most
excellent creature now, in what should be the quiet time of her
life, leaving home and all its accustomed ways, habits, and
comforts, and dear A----, who is her darling, to come wandering to
the ends of the earth after me.... These distant and prolonged
separations seem like foretastes of death.... We have seen an
American sun, and an American moon, and American stars, and we
think they "get up these things better than we do." We have had
several fresh squalls, and one heavy gale; we have shipped sundry
seas; we have had rat-hunting and harpooning of porpoises; we have
caught several hake and dogfish.
Here we really are, and perhaps you, who are not here, will believe
it more readily than I who am, and to whom it seems an impossible
kind of dream from which I must surely presently wake. We made New
York harbor Monday night at sunset, and cast anchor at twelve
o'clock off Staten Island, where we lay till yesterday morning at
half-past nine, when a steamboat came alongside to take the
passengers to shore. A thick fog covered the shores, and the rain
poured in torrents; but had the weather been more favorable, I
should have seen nothing of our approach to the city, for I was
crying bitterly. The town, as we drove through it from the landing,
struck me as foreign in its appearance--continental, I mean; trees
are mixed very prettily with the houses, which are painted of
various colors, and have green blinds on the outside, giving an
idea of coolness and shade.
The sunshine is glorious, and the air soft and temperate; our hotel
is pleasantly situated, and our rooms are gay and large. The town,
as I see it from our windows, reminds me a little of Paris.
Yesterday evening the trees and lighted shop-windows and brilliant
moonlight were like a suggestion of the Boulevards; it is very gay,
and rather like a fair.
The cholera has been very bad, but it is subsiding, and the people
are returning to town. We shall begin our work in about ten days. I
have not told you half I could say, but foolscap will contain no
more. God bless you, dear!
Affectionately yours,
F. A. K.
The foreboding with which I left my own country was justified by the
event. My dear aunt died, and I married, in America; and neither of us
ever had a home again in England.
What shall I say to you? First of all, pray don't forget me, don't
be altered when I see you again, don't die before I come back,
don't die if I never come back.... You cannot imagine how strange
the comparisons people here are perpetually making between this
wonderful sapling of theirs and our old oak seem to me.... My
father, thank God, is wonderfully improved in health, looks, and
spirits; the fine, clear, warm (hot it should be called) atmosphere
agrees with him, and the release from the cares and anxieties of
that troublesome estate of his in St. Giles' will, I am sure, be of
the greatest service to him. He begins his work to-morrow night
with Hamlet, and on Tuesday I act Bianca. It is thought expedient
that we should act singly the two first nights, and then make a
"constellation." Dall is in despair because I am to be discovered
instead of coming on (a thing actors deprecate, because they do not
receive their salvo of entrance applause), and also because I am
not seen at first in what she thinks a becoming dress. For my part,
I am rather glad of this decision, for besides Bianca's being one
of my best parts, the play, as the faculty have mangled it, is such
a complete monologue that I am less at the mercy of my coadjutors
than in any other piece I play in....
Dall is very well, very hot, and very mosquito-bitten. The heat
seems to me almost intolerable, though it is here considered mild
autumn weather: the mornings and evenings are, it is true,
generally freshened with a cool delicious air, which is at this
moment blowing all my pens and paper away, and compensating us for
our midday's broiling. I do nothing but drink iced lemonade, and
eat peaches and sliced melon, in spite of the cholera.
[This was fifty-six years ago. Times are altered since this letter was
written. New York is neither ill paved nor ill lighted; the municipality
is rich, but neither economical, careful, nor honest, in dealing with
the public moneys. The rapid spread of superficial civilization and
accumulation of easily-got wealth, together with incessant communication
with Europe, have made of the great cities of the New World, centres of
an imperfect but extreme luxury, vying with, and in some respects going
beyond, all that London or Paris presents for the indulgence of tastes
pampered by the oldest civilization of Europe.
One day, after the Croton water had been brought into New York, I was
sitting with the venerable Chancellor Kent at the window of his house in
Union Square, and, pointing to the fountain that sprang up in the midst
of the inclosure, he said, "When I was a boy, much more than half a
century ago, I used to go to the Croton water, and paddle, and fish, and
bathe, and swim, and loiter my time away in the summer days. I cannot go
out there any more for any of these pleasant purposes, but the Croton
water has come here to me." What a ballad Schiller or Goethe would have
made of that! That morning visit to Chancellor Kent has left that pretty
picture in my mind, and the recollection of his last words as he shook
hands with me: "Ay, madam, the secret of life is always to have
excitement enough, and never too much." But he did not give me the
secret of that secret.]
We went through the fish and fruit markets the other day;
unfortunately it was rather late in the morning, and of course the
glory of the market was over, but yet there remained enough to
enchant us, with their abundant plenteousness of good things. The
fruit-market was beautiful; fruit-baskets half as high as I am,
placed in rows of a dozen, filled with peaches, and painted of a
bright vermilion color, which throws a ruddy becoming tint over the
downy fruit. It looked like something in the "Arabian Nights;"
heaps, literally heaps of melons, apples, pears, and wild grapes,
in the greatest profusion. I was enchanted with the beautiful
forms, bright colors, and fragrant smell, but I saw no flowers, and
I have seen hardly any since I have been here, which is rather a
grief to me....
Americans are the most extravagant people in the world, and flowers
are among them objects of the most lavish expenditure. The prices
paid for nosegays, wreaths, baskets, and devices of every sort of
hot-house plants, are incredible to any reasonable mind. At parties
and balls ladies are laden with costly nosegays which will not even
survive the evening's fatigue of carrying them. Dinner and luncheon
parties are adorned, not only with masses of exquisite bloom as
table ornaments, but by every lady's plate a magnificent nosegay of
hot-house flowers is placed; and I knew a lady who, wishing to
adorn her ballroom with rather more than usual floral magnificence,
had it hung round with garlands of white camellias and myosotis.
Good-by, my dearest H----. I pray for you morning and night. Is not
that thinking of you, and loving you as best I can?
Your affectionate
F. A. K.
DEAREST H----,
... We are all pretty well, but all but devoured by multitudinous
and multivarious beasts of prey--birds, I suppose they are:
mosquitoes, ants, and flies, by day; and flies, fleas, and worse,
by night. The plagues of Egypt were a joke to it. We spend our
lives in murdering hecatombs of creeping and jumping things, and
vehemently slapping our own faces with intent to kill the flying
ones that incessantly buzz about one. It is rather a deplorable
existence, and reminds me of one of the most unpleasant circles in
Dante's "Hell," which I don't think could have been much worse. My
father began his work on Monday last with Hamlet. Dall and I went
into a private box to see him; he acted admirably, and looked
wonderfully young and handsome. The house was crammed, and the
audience, we were assured, was enthusiastic beyond all precedent.
[This was in 1832, when slavery literally governed the United States. In
1874, when the Civil War had washed out slavery with the blood of free
men, the prejudice engendered by it governed them still to the following
degree. Going to the theater in Philadelphia one night, I desired my
servant, a perfectly respectable and decorous colored man, to go into
the house and see the performance. This, however, he did not succeed in
doing, being informed at all the entrance doors that persons of color
were not admitted to any part of the theater. At this same time, more
than half the State legislature of South Carolina were blacks. Moreover,
at this same time, colored children were not received into the public
schools of Philadelphia, though colored citizens were eligible, and in
some cases acted as members of the board of management of these very
schools. I talked of this outrageous inconsistent prejudice with some of
my friends; among others, the editor of a popular paper. They were all
loud in their condemnation of the state of things, but strongly of
opinion that to move at all in the matter would be highly inopportune
and injudicious. Time, they said, would settle all these questions; and,
without doubt, it will. Charles Sumner, who thought Time could afford to
have his elbow jogged about them, had just gone to his grave, leaving,
unfortunately, incomplete his bill of rights in behalf of the colored
citizens of the United States.
On Friday we acted "The School for Scandal." Our houses have been
very fine indeed, in spite of the intolerable heat of the
weather.... My ill-starred Fazio of Thursday night is making a
terrible stir in the papers, appealing to the public, and writing
long letters about his having merely studied the part to
accommodate me. "Hard case--unjust partiality--superior influence,"
etc., etc.--in short, an attempt at a little cabal, the effect of
which is that he has obtained leave to appear again to-morrow night
in Jaffier to my Belvidera. The poor man is under a strong mental
delusion, he cannot act in the least; however, we shall see what he
will do with "Venice Preserved." ...
Yesterday evening we dined with some English people who are staying
in this hotel, and met Dr. Wainwright, rector of the most
"fashionable" church in New York; a very agreeable, good, and
clever man, who expressed great delight at having an opportunity of
meeting us in private, as his congregation are so strait-laced that
he can neither call upon us nor invite us to his house, much less
set his foot in the theater. The probable consequence of any of
these enormities, it seems, would be deserted pews next Sunday, and
perhaps eventually the forced resignation of his cure of souls.
This is rather narrow minded, I think, for this free and
enlightened country. Think of my mother's dear old friend, Dr.
Hughes, and Milman, and Harness, and Dyce, and all our excellent
reverend friends and intimate acquaintance....
I am not sure that, upon the whole, our acting is not rather too
quiet--tame, I suppose they would call it--for our present public.
Ranting and raving in tragedy, and shrieks of unmeaning laughter in
comedy, are not, you know, precisely our style, and I am afraid our
audiences here may think us flat. I was informed by a friend of
mine who heard the remark, that one gentleman observed to another,
after seeing my father in "Venice Preserved," "Lord bless you! it's
nothing to Cooper's acting--nothing! Why, I've seen the
perspiration roll down his face like water when he played Pierre!
You didn't see Mr. Kemble put himself to half such pains!" Which
reminds me of the Frenchwoman's commendation to her neighbor of a
performance of Dupr�, the great Paris tenor of his day: "Ah! ce
pauvre cher M. Dupr�! ce brave homme! quel mal il se donne pour
chanter cela! Regardez donc, madame, il est tout en sueur!" But
this order of criticism, of course, may be met with anywhere; and
the stamp-and-stare-and-start-and-scream-school has had its
admirers all the world over since the days of Hamlet the Dane.
I have not seen much of either places or people yet.... This city
is picturesque and foreign-looking; trees are much intermixed with
the houses, among them a great many fine willows, and these,
together with the various colors of the houses, and the
irregularity of the streets and buildings, form constantly "little
bits" that would gladden the eye of a painter. The sky here is
beautiful; I find in it what you have seen in Italy, and I only in
Angerstein's Gallery, the orange sunsets of Claude Lorraine.
We leave New York for Philadelphia after next week, and shall
remain there three weeks.
I have read and noted much of your pretty book. There are one or
two points which shall "serve for sweet discourses" in our time to
come. I find great satisfaction in our discussions, for though I
may not often confess to being convinced by your arguments in our
differences (does any one ever do so?), I derive so much
information from them, that they are as profitable as pleasant to
me. Are you going to be busy with your pen soon again? Write me how
the world is going on yonder, and believe me ever truly yours,
F. A. K.
DEAREST H----,
[Our house in Great Russell Street, which was the last at the corner of
Montague Place, adjoined the British Museum, and has since been taken
into, or removed for (I don't know which), the new buildings of that
institution. Our friend Panizzi, the learned librarian, lived in the
house that stood where ours, formerly my uncle's, did. While we were
still living there, however, I was allowed a privileged entrance at all
times to the library, and am ashamed to think how seldom I availed
myself of so great a favor.]
I am very sorry my brother Henry and his men are going to be sent
upon so odious an errand as tithe-collecting must be in Ireland. I
trust in God he may meet with no mischief while fulfilling his
duty; I should be both to think of that comely-looking young thing
bruised or broken, maimed or murdered. I hardly think your savage
Irishers would have the heart to hurt him, he looks so like, what
indeed he is, a mere boy; but then, to be sure, his errand is not
one to recommend him to their mercy.
I have read Bryant's poetry, and like it very much. The general
spirit of it is admirable; it is all wholesome poetry, and some of
it is very beautiful.
Are you acquainted with any of Daniel Webster's speeches? They are
very fine, eloquent, and powerful; and one that he delivered upon
the commemoration of the landing of the English exiles at Plymouth,
in many parts, magnificent. I was profoundly affected by it when my
father read it to us on board ship....
Bad as your mice, of which you complain so bitterly, may be, they
are civilized Christian creatures compared with the heathen swarms
with which we wage war incessantly here. Every evening, as soon as
the sun sets, clouds of mosquitoes begin their war-dance round us;
their sting is most venomous, and as my patience is not even
skin-deep, I tear myself like a maniac, and then, instead of oil,
pour aromatic vinegar into my wounds, and a very pretty species of
torture is produced by that means, I assure you. Besides these
winged devils, we have swarms of flies, which also bite and sting,
with a venomous rancor of which I should have thought their
frivolity incapable. Besides these, every cupboard and drawer in
our rooms is full of moths. Besides these, we have an army of
cantankerous fleas quartered upon us. Besides these, we have one
particular closet where we keep--our bugs, and where for the most
part, I am truly thankful to say, they keep themselves. Besides
these, we have two or three ants' nests in our bedroom, and
everything we look upon seems but a moving mass of these red,
long-legged, but always exemplary insects. These fellow-creatures
make one's life not worth much having, and I do nothing all day
long but sing the famous entomological chorus in "Faust;" and if
this goes on much longer, I feel as if I should take to buzzing. Do
you know that it is hard upon three o'clock in the morning? I must
leave off and go to bed, for I rehearse Constance to-morrow at
eleven, and act her to-morrow night. On Friday I act Bizarre in
"The Inconstant," and think I shall find it great fun.... God bless
you, dearest H----.
I like this place better than New York; it has an air of greater
age. It has altogether a rather dull, sober, mellow hue, which is
more agreeable than the glaring newness of New York. There are one
or two fine public buildings, and the quantity of clean,
cool-looking white marble which they use both for their public
edifices and for the doorsteps of the private houses has a simple
and sumptuous appearance, which is pleasant. It is electioneering
time, and all last night the streets resounded with cheers and
shouts, and shone with bonfires. The present President, Jackson,
appears to be far from popular here, and though his own partisans
are determined, of course, to re-elect him if possible, a violent
struggle is likely to take place; and here already his opponent,
Henry Clay, who is the leader of the aristocratic party in the
United States, is said to have obtained the superiority over him.
I have got Graham's and Smith's "Histories," and though my time for
reading is anything but abundant, yet every night and morning I do
contrive, while brushing the outside of my head, to cram something
into the inside of it.
I cannot bear to give up any advantage which I once possessed, and
therefore struggle to keep up, in some degree, my music and
Italian. These, together with rehearsing every morning, and acting
four times a week, besides my journal, which I very seldom neglect,
make up a good deal of daily occupation. Then, one must sacrifice a
certain amount of time to the conventional waste of society,
receiving and returning visits, etc.... I like what I have read of
Graham very much; the matter is very interesting, and the spirit in
which it is treated; and I am deeply in love with Captain John
Smith, and wonder greatly at Pocahontas marrying anybody else. I
suppose, however, the savage was not without excuse; for Mary
Stuart, who knew something of these matters, says, with a rather
satirical glance at her cousin of England, "En ces sortes de
choses, la plus sage de nous toutes n'est qu'un peu moins sotte que
les autres."
I acted here last night for the first time. Dall and my father say
that I received my reception very ungraciously. I am sure I am very
sorry, I did not mean to do so, but I really had not the heart or
the face to smile and look as pleased and pleasant as I can at a
parcel of strangers.... I was not well, or in spirits, and laboring
under a severe cold, which I acquired on board the steamboat that
brought down the Delaware.... Neither the Raritan nor the Delaware
struck me in any way except by their great width. These vast
streams naturally suggest the mighty resources which a country so
watered presents to the commercial enterprise of its inhabitants.
The breadth of these great rivers dwarfs their shores and makes
their banks appear flat and uninteresting, though the large
lake-like basins into which they occasionally expand are grand from
the mere extent and volume of the sweeping mass of waters.
The colors of the autumnal foliage are rich and beautiful beyond
imagination--crimson and gold, like a regal mantle, instead of the
sad russet cloak of our fading woods. I think, beautiful as this
is, that its gorgeousness takes away from the sweet solemnity that
makes the fall of the year pre-eminently the season of thoughtful
contemplation. Our autumn at home is mellow and harmonious, though
sometimes melancholy; but the brilliancy of this decay strikes one
sometimes with a sudden sadness, as if the whole world were dying
of consumption, with these glittering gleams and hectic flushes, a
mere deception of disease and death.... Good-by, my dearest H----
We have just returned from church. Dall and I being too late this
morning for the service, which begins at half-past ten, sallied
forth in search of salvation this afternoon, and after wandering
about a little, entered a fine-looking church, which we found was a
Presbyterian place of worship.... The preaching to-day was
extemporaneous, and extremely feeble and commonplace, occasionally
reminding me of your eloquent friend at Skerries.... I shall try,
on my return to New York, to settle to some work in earnest, as I
hope there that we shall repeat the plays we have already acted,
and so need no rehearsals.... To-morrow I act Juliet to my father's
Romeo; he does it still most beautifully.... In spite of his acting
it with his own child (which puts a manifest absurdity on the very
face of it), the perfection of his art makes it more youthful,
graceful, ardent, and lover-like--a better Romeo, in short, than
the youngest pretender to it nowadays. It is certainly simple truth
when he says, "I am the youngest of that name, for lack of a
better," when the nurse asks for young Romeo.
From all the opinions that I hear expressed upon the subject, it
does not seem as though the system of election prevalent here works
much better, or is much freer from abuses, than the well-vilified
one which England has just been reforming. Bribery and corruption
are familiar here as elsewhere, to those who have, and those who
wish to have, power; and I have not yet heard a single American
speak of our Radical reformers without uplifted hands at what they
consider their folly in not "letting well alone," or, as they say,
in substituting one set of abuses for another, as they declare we
shall do if we adopt their vote by ballot system.
My father and Dall are very well; at this moment he is busy saying,
and she hearing him say, the part of Fazio, which he is to act with
me to-morrow night. I dread it dreadfully; acting anything painful
with him always tries my nerves extremely.
Dall went into a Quaker's shop here the other day, when, after
waiting upon her with the utmost attention and kindness, the master
of the shop said, "And how doth Fanny? I was in hopes she might
have wanted something; we should have great pleasure in attending
upon her." Was not that nice? So to-day I went thither, and bought
myself a lovely sober-colored gown. This place, as you know, is the
headquarters of Quakerdom, and all the enchanting nosegays come
from "a Philadelphia friend," the latter word dashed under, as if
to indicate a member of the religious fraternity always called by
that kindly title here....
I received your fifth letter to-day, and one from Dorothy, and one
from Emily Fitzhugh.... My last letter to you was a sad one, and
sad in a fashion that does not often occur to me. I was troubled
and anxious about my professional labor and its results, and that
may be called a small sadness compared with some other with which I
have lately become familiar. Of course none of these anxieties have
been removed, for some time must elapse before I can know on what
plan my father determines with regard to Mr. Bartley's proposal
about this new theater. It does not affect me personally, because I
am thoroughly determined to take no part in any speculation of the
kind; but the possibility of my father entering into any such
scheme is care enough to "kill a cat," and make a kitten miserable
besides.... In all matters, but especially in matters of business,
I hold frankness, straightforwardness, and decision as conducive to
success, as consonant with right feeling; but I think men are much
more cowardly than women, and believe a great deal more in policy,
temporizing, and expediency than we do. "Managing" is supposed to
be a feminine tendency; it has no place in my composition; perhaps
I might be the better for a little of it--but only perhaps, and
only a little.... This letter, as you will perceive by its date,
was begun on the banks of the Delaware; here we are, however, once
more in New York. It is Monday evening, the 5th of November, and
you are firing squibs and burning manikins _en action de gr�ces_
that the Houses of Parliament were not blown up by the Roman
Catholics, instead of living to be reformed by the Whigs, and
(peradventure) blowing up the nation.
DEAREST H----,
My admiration and respect for Walter Scott are unbounded, and were
I the noblest, richest, and charmingest man in the world, I would
lay myself at Anne Scott's feet out of sheer love and veneration
for her father....
You ask me if I wrote anything on board ship? Nothing but odds and
ends of doggerel. Since I have been here I have written some verses
on the beautiful American autumn, which have been published with
commendation. I am thinking of writing a prose story, if ever again
I can get two minutes and a half of leisure.... Your entreaties for
minute details of our life make me sad, for how little of what we
do, be, or suffer can be conveyed to you in this miserable scrap of
paper!... Our dinner-hour is three when we are actors, five when we
are ladies and gentlemen. The food we get here in New York is very
indifferent. It was excellent in quality in Philadelphia, but
wherever we have been there is a want of niceness and refinement in
the cooking and serving everything that is very disagreeable....
This is our last night but one of acting here. We play "The
Hunchback" on Saturday, and on Monday go back to Philadelphia for
three weeks; thence to Baltimore and Washington, and then return
here. I must go now and rehearse Katharine and Petruchio.
F. A. K.
December 9, 1832.
MY DEAREST H----,
Before this letter reaches you, however, you will have returned to
your castle, and your visit to Edinburgh will be over.... Mercy on
me! what disputations you and Mr. Combe will have had--on matters
physiological, psychological, phrenological, and philosophical! My
brains ache to imagine them.... Spurzheim, you know, is dead lately
in Boston. It is a matter of regret to me not to have seen him, and
his death will be a grief to the Combes, who venerate him
highly.... Making trial of people is running a foolish risk, and
they who get disappointment by it reap the most probable result
from such experiments. I am quite willing to trust my friends; God
forbid I should ever try them!...
We have not yet been to Boston, and therefore I myself know nothing
of Channing, and cannot answer your questions about him. All that I
hear inclines me to like as well as respect him. His gentleness and
kindness, his weak health, brought on by over-study, his perfect
simplicity and unaffectedness--these are the usual details that
follow any mention of him, and accord with the impression his
writings produced upon me; but of his theological treatises I know
nothing.
I found Graham a little too much of a Republican for me, though his
"History" seemed to me upon the whole good and very impartial. I am
now half way through Smith's "Virginia," which pleases me by its
quaint old-world style. I am myself much inclined to be in love
with Captain Smith. A man who fights three Turks and carries their
heads on his shield is to me an admirable man....
My father and I took a moonlight walk the other night, from ten
o'clock till half-past twelve, during which we neither of us
uttered six words.
You are the first to whom I date this new year.... I told you in
one of my letters to keep the five guineas Mrs. Norton has paid you
for my scribblements to pay the postage of my letters--do so....
The railroad was full of knots and dots, and jolting and jumping
and bumping and thumping places. The carriages we were in held
twelve people very uncomfortably. Baltimore itself, as far as I
have seen it, strikes me as a large, rambling, red-brick village on
the outskirts of one of our manufacturing towns, Birmingham or
Manchester. It covers an immense extent of ground, but there are
great gaps and vacancies in the middle of the streets, patches of
gravely ground, parcels of meadow land, and large vacant
spaces--which will all, no doubt, be covered with buildings in good
time, for it is growing daily and hourly--but which at present give
it an untidy, unfinished, straggling appearance.
We are earning money very fast, and though I think we work too
incessantly and too hard, yet, as every night we do not act is a
certain loss of so much out of my father's pocket, I do not like to
make many objections to it, although I think it is really not
unlikely to be detrimental to his own health and strength....
I spent yesterday evening with some very pleasant people here, who
are like old-fashioned English folk, the Catons, Lady Wellesley's
father and mother. They are just now in deep mourning for Mrs.
Caton's father, the venerable Mr. Carroll, who was upward of
ninety-five years old when he died, and was the last surviving
signer of the Declaration of Independence. I saw a lovely picture
by Lawrence of the eldest of the three beautiful sisters, the
daughters of Mrs. Caton, who have all married Englishmen of rank.
[The Marchioness of Wellesley, the Duchess of Leeds, and Lady
Stafford. The fashion of marrying in England seems to be
traditional in this family. Miss McTavish, niece of these ladies,
married Mr. Charles Howard, son of the Earl of Carlisle.]
The Baltimore women are celebrated for their beauty, and I think
they are the prettiest creatures I have ever seen as far as their
faces go; but they are short and thin, and have no figures at all,
either in height or breadth, and pinch their waists and feet most
cruelly, which certainly, considering how small they are by nature,
is a work of supererogation, and does not tend to produce in them a
state of grace.... We act every night this week, and as we are
obliged to rehearse every morning, of course I have no time for any
occupations but my strictly professional ones. I do not approve of
this quantity of hard work for either my father or myself, but I do
not like to make any further protest upon the subject....
Thank you across the sea, dear Mrs. Jameson, for your letter of the
1st of November. I had been wondering, but the day before it
reached me, whether you had ever received one I wrote to you on my
first arrival in New York, or whether you were accusing me of
neglect, ingratitude, forgetfulness, and all the turpitudes that
the delay of a letter sometimes causes folk to give other folk
credit for. My occupations are incessant, or rather, I should say,
my occupation, for to my sorrow I have but one. 'Tis not with me
now as in the fortunate days when, after six rehearsals, a piece
ran, as the saying is, twenty nights, leaving me all the mornings
and three evenings in the week at my own disposal. Here we rush
from place to place, at each place have to drill a new set of
actors, and every night to act a different play; so that my days
are passed in dawdling about cold, dark stages, with blundering
actors who have not even had the conscience to study the words of
their parts, all the morning. All the afternoon I pin up ribbons
and feathers and flowers, and sort out theatrical adornments, and
all the evening I enchant audiences, prompt my fellow-mimes, and
wish it had pleased Heaven to make me a cabbage in a corner of a
Christian kitchen-garden in--well, say Hertfordshire, or any other
county of England; I am not particular as to the precise spot....
Whenever I can I get on horseback; it is the only pleasure I have
in this world; for my dancing days are drawing to a close. But I
mean to ride as long as I have a hand to hold a rein, or a leg to
put over a pommel. By the by, I ought to beg your pardon for the
last sentence; I ought to have said a foot to put into a stirrup;
for if you are not ashamed of having legs you ought to be--at
least, we are in this country, and never mention, or give the
slightest token of having such things, except by wearing very short
petticoats, which we don't consider objectionable.... I am glad you
have furbished up and completed your little room, because it is a
sign you mean to stay where you are, and I like to know where to
find you in my imagination.... I have just seen dear Washington
Irving, and it required all my sense of decent decorum to prevent
my throwing my arms round his neck, he looked so like a bit of
home, England.
You will be glad to hear that we are thriving, in body and estate.
We are all well, and our work is very successful. The people flock
to see us, and nothing can exceed the kindness which we meet with
everywhere and from everybody.... I read nothing whatever since I
am in this blessed land. The only books I have accomplished getting
through have been Graham's "History of North America,"
Knickerbocker's "History of New York," which nearly killed me with
laughing; "Contarini Fleming," which is very affected and very
clever; sundry cantos of Dante, sundry plays of Shakespeare, sundry
American poems [which are very good], and old Captain John Smith's
quaint "History of Virginia." As fast as I gather my wits together
for any steady occupation, I am whisked off to some new place, and
do not recover from one journey before I have to take another. The
roads here shake one's body, soul, thoughts, opinions, and
principles all to pieces; I assure you they are wicked roads.
Our theater, Covent Garden, is, we understand, going to the dogs. I
cannot help it any more, that is certain, and feel about that as
about all things that have had their day--it must go. Taglioni is
like a dream, and you must not abuse Mademoiselle Mars to me. I
never saw her but twice--in "L'Ecole des Vieillards" and
"Val�rie"--and I thought her perfection in both.... If I do not
leave off, you will be blind for the next fortnight with reading
this crossed letter. I wish you success most heartily in all you
undertake, and am truly and faithfully yours,
FANNY KEMBLE.
To my great regret and loss, I saw Mademoiselle Mars only in two parts,
when, in the autumn of her beauty and powers, she played a short
engagement in London. The grace, the charm, the loveliness, which she
retained far into middle age, were, even in their decline, enough to
justify all that her admirers said of her early incomparable
fascination. Her figure had grown large and her face become round, and
lost their fine outline and proportion; but the exquisite taste of her
dress and graceful dignity of her deportment, and sweet radiance of her
expressive countenance, were still indescribably charming; and the
voice, unrivaled in its fresh melodious brilliancy, and the pure and
perfect enunciation, were unimpaired, and sounded like the clear liquid
utterance of a young girl of sixteen. Her Celim�ne and her Elmire I
never had the good fortune to see, but can imagine, from her performance
of the heroine in Casimir de la Vigne's capital play of "L'Ecole des
Vieillards," how well she must have deserved her unrivaled reputation in
those parts.
Dr. Gueneau de Mussy, who knew her well, and used to see her very
frequently in her later years of retirement from the stage, told me that
he had often heard her read, among other things, the whole play of "Le
Tartuffe," and that the coarse flippancy of the honest-hearted Dorinne,
and the stupid stolidity of the dupe Orgon, and the vulgar, gross,
sensual hypocrisy of the Tartuffe, were all rendered by her with the
same incomparable truth and effect as her own famous part of the heroine
of the piece, Elmire. On one of the very last occasions of her appearing
before her own Parisian audience, when she had passed the limit at which
it was possible for a woman of her advanced age to assume the appearance
of youth, the part she was playing requiring that she should exclaim "Je
suis jeune! je suis jolie!" a loud, solitary hiss protested against the
assertion with bitter significance. After an instant's consternation,
which held both the actors and audience silent, she added, with the
exquisite grace and dignity which survived the youth and beauty to which
she could no longer even pretend, "Je suis Mademoiselle Mars!" and the
whole house broke out in acclamations, and rang with the applause due to
what the incomparable artiste still was and the memory of all that she
had been.]
"For Each and for All" was, I think, the name of the volume taken from
Miss Martineau's admirable series of political economy tales, which my
friend, Miss S----, sent me. The heroine of the story is a young
actress, and Miss Martineau once told me that she had derived some
slight suggestion of the character from me.
Besides your letter, the poor old _Pacific_ (the ship that brought
us to America) brought me something else to-day. While Washington
Irving was sitting with me, a message came from the mate of the
_Pacific_ with a large box of mould for me. I had it brought in,
and asking Irving if he knew what it was, "A bit of the old soil,"
said he; and that it was.... Washington Irving was sure to have
guessed right as to my treasure, and I was not ashamed to greet it
with tears before him.... He is so sensible, sound, and
straightforward in his way of seeing everything, and at the same
time so full of hopefulness, so simple, unaffected, true, and good,
that it is a privilege to converse with him, for which one is the
wiser, the happier and the better....
Tuesday, 16th.
... This morning I have been to rehearsal, and out shopping, and
received crowds of strangers who come and call upon us.... To-night
I make my first appearance here in "Fazio," and we hear the theater
will be crammed, and I am going to a party after that dreadful
play; not by way of delight, but of duty, and a severe one it will
be. To-morrow I act Mrs. Haller, Thursday Lady Teazle, and Friday
Bianca again; Saturday is a blessed holiday.... I have finished
Smith's "Virginia," which I found rather tiresome toward the end. I
have finished Harriet Martineau's political-economy story, which I
liked exceedingly. I am reading a small volume of Brewster's on
"Natural Magic," which entertains me very much; but I am dreadfully
cramped for time, and my poor mind goes like a half-tended garden,
which every now and then makes me feel sad.
You would have been pleased, dear H----, if you had heard
Washington Irving's answer to me the other day when, in talking
with him of my profession and my distaste for it, I complained of
the little leisure it left me for study and improving myself, for
reading, writing, and the occupations that were congenial to me.
"Well," he said, "you are living, you are seeing men and things,
you are seeing the world, you are acquiring materials and heaping
together observations and experience and wisdom, and by and by,
when with fame you have acquired independence and retire from these
labors, you will begin another and a brighter course with matured
powers. I know of no one whose life has such a promise in it as
yours." Oh! H----, I almost felt hopeful while he spoke so to
me....
[Alas! my kind friend was no prophet. Not many months after, sitting by
him at a dinner-party in New York, he said to me, "So I hear you are
engaged to be married, and you are going to settle in this country.
Well, you will be told that this country is like your own, and that
living in it is like living in England: but do not believe it; it is no
such thing, it is nothing of the sort; which need not prevent your being
very happy here if you make the best of things as you find them. Above
all, whatever you do, don't become a creaking door." "What's that?"
asked I, laughing. He then told me that his friend Leslie, the painter,
who was, I believe, like his contemporary and charming rival artist,
Gilbert Stewart Newton, an American by birth, had married an
Englishwoman, whom he had brought out to America, "but who," said
Irving, "worried and tormented his and her own life out with ceaseless
complaints and comparisons, and was such a nuisance that I used to call
her 'the creaking door.'"]
I am affectionately yours,
FANNY KEMBLE.
This is our first visit to this place, and I am enchanted with it.
As a town, it bears more resemblance to an English city than any we
have yet seen; the houses are built more in our own fashion, and
there is a beautiful walk called the Common, the features of which
strongly resemble the view over the Green Park just by Constitution
Hill. The people here take more kindly to us than they have done
even elsewhere, and it is delightful to act to audiences who appear
so pleasantly pleased with us....
Only think! a book was sent to me from Philadelphia the other day
which proved to be the "Diary of an Ennuy�e." I have no idea who it
came from, or who made so good a guess at that old predilection of
mine. I fell to forthwith--for that book has always had a most
powerful charm for me--and read, and read on, though I have read it
many a time through before, and though I had been acting Bianca,
and my supper was on my plate before me.
I heard the other day mention of another work of yours, since the
Shakespeare book. If you are not weary of writing to me, with such
long intervals between your question and my reply, tell me
something of this new work in your next letter.
Our plans for the summer are yet unsettled.... I was much
disappointed on arriving here to find that Dr. Channing has left
Boston for the South. His health is completely broken, and the
bleak and bitter east wind that blows perpetually here is a
formidable enemy to life, even in stronger frames than his....
I received your last letter, dated the 22d March, a week ago, when
I was in Boston, which we have left, after a stay of five weeks, to
return here, where we arrived a few days ago....
[The addition of the new part of Boston, stretching beyond the Common
and the public Gardens, has added immensely to the beauty of the city,
and the variety of the buildings and alternate views at the end of the
vistas of the fine streets, looking toward Dorchester Heights, and those
ending in the blue waters of the bay and Charles River, not unfrequently
reminded me both of Florence and Venice, under a sky as rich, and more
pellucid, than that of Italy.]
I think the mental qualities are more often detected there than the
moral ones. He is short and slight in figure, and looks, as indeed
he is, extremely delicate, an habitual invalid; his eyes, which are
gray, are well and deeply set, and the brow and forehead fine,
though not, perhaps, as striking as I had expected. The rest of the
face has no peculiar character, and is rather plain.
The racecourse is on Long Island, and, to reach it, one crosses the
arm of the sea that divides that strip of land from New York in a
steam ferryboat. All these transports were so thronged to-day with
carriages, horses, and a self-governed, enlightened, and very free
people, that in all my life I never saw anything so frightful as
the confusion of the embarking and disembarking....
F. A. K.
I am very sorry you have been ill. You do not speak of your eyes,
from which I argue that you were not painfully conscious of the
existence of those valuable luminaries at the time you wrote....
I wish you could have heard what my father was reading to us this
morning out of Stewart's "North America;" not Utopian dreams of
some imaginary land of plenty and fertility, but sober statements
of authentic fact, telling of the existence of unnumbered leagues
of the richest soil that ever rewarded human industry an
hundredfold; wide tracts of lovely wilderness, covered with
luxuriant pasture, and adorned profusely with the most beautiful
wild flowers; great forests of giant timber, and endless rolling
prairies of virgin earth, untouched by ax or plow; a world of
unrivaled beauty and fertility, untenanted and empty, waiting to
receive the over-brimming populations of the crowded lands of
Europe, and to repay their labor with every species of abundance.
It is strange how slow those old-world, weary, working folk have
hitherto been to avail themselves of God's provision for them
here.... You tell me you are working hard, but you do not say at
what. Innumerable are the questions I have been asked about you,
and a Philadelphian gentleman, a very intelligent and clever
person, who is a large bookseller and publisher here, bade me tell
you that you and your works were as much esteemed and delighted in
in America as in your own country. He was so enthusiastic about you
that I think he would willingly go over to England for the sole
purpose of making your acquaintance.
[It is a pity that the American law on the subject of copyright should
have rendered Mr. Carey's admiration of my friend and her works so
barren of any useful result to her. Any tolerably just equivalent for
the republication of her books in America would have added materially to
the hardly earned gains of her laborious literary life.]
TO MISS FITZHUGH.
We left that wonderful place a few days ago, steamed across Lake
Ontario, came down the rapids of the St. Lawrence in an open boat,
sang the Canadian boat song, and are now safe and sound, only half
roasted, in his Majesty's dominions. Of all that we have seen,
Niagara is, of course, the old object beyond all others, but we
were delighted with the softness and beauty of a great deal of the
scenery that we saw in traversing the State of New York--one of
twenty States, not the largest of the twenty, but large enough to
hold England in its lap.
F. A. K.
We have been staying for the last fortnight in Quebec, and are now
on our way back to Montreal, where we shall act a night or two, and
then return to the United States, to New York and Boston.... The
greater part of these poems of Tennyson's which you have sent me we
read together. The greater part of them are very beautiful. He
seems to me to possess in a higher degree than any English poet,
except, perhaps, Keats, the power of writing pictures. "The
Miller's Daughter," "The Lady of Shalott," and even the shorter
poems, "Mariana," "Ele�nore," are full of exquisite form and color;
if he had but the mechanical knowledge of the art, I am convinced
he would have been a great painter. There are but one or two things
in the volume which I don't like. "The little room with the two
little white sofas," I hate, though I can fancy perfectly well both
the room and his feeling about it; but that sort of thing does not
make good poetry, and lends itself temptingly to the making of good
burlesque.
I have much to tell you, for in the last two months I have seen
marvelous much. I have seen Niagara. I wish you had been there to
see it with me. However, Niagara will not cease falling; and you
may, perhaps, at some future time, visit this country. You must not
expect any description of Niagara from me, because it is quite
unspeakable, and, moreover, if it were not, it would still be quite
unimaginable. The circumstances under which I saw it I can tell
you, but of the great cataract itself, what can be told except that
it is water?
We all liked him so well that my father invited him to join our
party, and travel with us to Niagara, whither he was bound as well
as ourselves. He had seen it before, and though almost all the
wonders of the world are familiar to him, he said it was the only
one that he cared much to see again.
The rock over which the rapids run is already scooped and hollowed
out to a great extent by the action of the water; the edge of the
precipice, too, is constantly crumbling and breaking off under the
spurn of its downward leap. At the very brink the rock is not much
more than two feet thick, and when I stood under it and thought of
the enormous mass of water rushing over and pouring from it, it did
not seem at all improbable that at any moment the roof might give
way, the rock break off fifteen or twenty feet, and the whole huge
cataract, retreating back, leave a still wider basin for its floods
to pour themselves into. You must come and see it before you die,
dear H----.
After our short stay at Niagara, we came down Lake Ontario and the
St. Lawrence to Montreal and Quebec. Before I leave off speaking of
that wonderful cataract, I must tell you that the impression of awe
and terror it produced at first upon me completely wore away, and
as I became familiar with it, its dazzling brightness, its soothing
voice, its gliding motion, its soft, thick, furry beds of foam, its
vails and draperies of floating light, and gleaming, wavering
diadems of vivid colors, made it to me the perfection of loveliness
and the mere magnificence of beauty. It was certainly not the
"familiarity" that "breeds contempt," but more akin to the "perfect
love" which "casteth out fear;" and I began at last to understand
Mr. Trelawney's saying that the only impression it produced on him
was that of perfect repose; but perhaps it takes Niagara to
mesmerize him.
A few miles below the falls is a place called the whirlpool, which,
in its own kind, is almost as fine as the fall itself. The river
makes an abrupt angle in its course, when it is shut in by very
high and rocky cliffs--walls, in fact--almost inaccessible from
below. Black fir trees are anchored here and there in their cracks
and fissures, and hang over the dismal pool below, most of them
scathed and contorted by the fires or the blasts of heaven. The
water itself is of a strange color, not transparent, but a pale
blue-green, like a discolored turquoise, or a stream of verdigris,
streaked with long veins and angry swirls of white, as if the angry
creature couldn't get out of that hole, and was foaming at the
mouth; for, before pursuing its course, the river churns round and
round in the sullen, savage, dark basin it has worn for itself, and
then, as if it had suddenly found an outlet, rushes on its foaming,
furious way down to Ontario. We had ridden there and alighted from
our horses, and sat on the brink for some time. It was the most
dismal place I ever beheld, and seemed to me to grow horribler
every moment I looked at it: drowning in that deep, dark,
wicked-looking whirlpool would be hideous, compared to being dashed
to death amid the dazzling spray and triumphant thunder of Niagara.
[There are but three places I have ever visited that produced upon me
the appalling impression of being accursed, and empty of the presence of
the God of nature, the Divine Creator, the All-loving Father: this
whirlpool of Niagara, that fiery, sulphurous, vile-smelling wound in the
earth's bosom, the crater of Vesuvius, and the upper part of the Mer de
Glace at Chamouni. These places impressed me with horror, and the
impression is always renewed in my mind when I remember them:
God-forsaken is what they looked to me.]
TO MRS. JAMESON.
You are wandering, dear Mrs. Jameson, in the land of romance, the
birthplace of wild traditions, the stronghold of chivalrous
legends, the spell-land of witchcraft, the especial haunt and home
of goblin, specter, sprite, and gnome; all the beautiful and
fanciful creations of the poetical imagination of the Middle Ages.
You are, I suppose, in Germany; intellectually speaking, almost the
antipodes of America. Germany is now the country to which my
imagination wanders oftener than to any other. Italy was my wishing
land eight years ago, but many things have dimmed that southern
vision to my fancy, and the cloudier skies, wilder associations,
and more solemn spirit of Germany attract me more now than the
sunny ruin-land....
Dear Mrs. Jameson, this is a short and stupid letter, but I have
been working awfully hard, and have not been well for the past
month, and am not capable of much exertion. It is quite a novelty
to me, and not an agreeable one, to feel myself weak, and worn out,
and good for nothing. Good-by; write to me from some of your
halting-places, and believe me ever yours truly,
F. A. K.
I received, a few days ago, a letter from dear H----, in which she
mentioned that you had an intention of writing a memoir or
biographical sketch of "the Kemble family," in which, if I
understood her right, you thought of introducing the notice which
you wrote for Hayter's drawings of me in Juliet. She said that you
wished to know whether I had any objection or dislike to your doing
so, and I answered directly to yourself, "None in the world." I had
but one fault to find with that notice of me, that it was far too
full of praise; I thought it so sincerely. But, without wishing to
enter into any discussion about my merits or your partiality, I can
only repeat that you are free to write of me what you will, and as
you will; but, for your own sake, I wish you to remember that
praise is, to the majority of readers, a much more vapid thing than
censure, and that if you could admire me less and criticise me
more, I am sure, as the housemaids say, you would give more
satisfaction. However, keep your conscience by you; praise or
blame, it is none of my business. Talking of that same Juliet, I
received a letter from Hayter the other day which gave me some
pain. He tells me that he has all those sketches on his hands, and
asks me if I am inclined to take them of him. I fear his applying
to me, at such a distance, on this subject, is a sign that he is
not prosperous or doing well. He is an amiable, clever little man,
and I shall feel very sorry if my surmise proves true. My father
wishes to have the collection, and I shall write to tell him so
forthwith.
[My friend, Lord Ellesmere, purchased the series of drawings Mr. Hayter
made from my performance of Juliet; and on my last visit to Lady
Ellesmere at Hatchford, she pointed them out to me round a small hall
that led to her private sitting-room, over the writing-table of which
hung a miniature of me copied from a drawing of Mrs. Jameson's by that
charming and clever woman, Miss Emily Eden.]
You will be sorry for me and for many when I tell you that our
good, dear friend Dall is dangerously ill. I am writing at this
moment by her bed.... This is the only trial of the kind I have
ever undergone; God has hitherto been pleased to spare all those
whom I love, and to grant them the enjoyment of strength and
health. This is my first lonely watching by a sick-bed, and I feel
deeply the sadness and awfulness of the office.... Now that I am
beginning to know what care and sorrow really are, I look back upon
my past life and see what reason I have to be thankful for the few
and light trials with which I have been visited. My poor dear
aunt's illness is giving us a professional respite, for which my
faculties, physical and mental, are very grateful. They needed it
sorely; I was almost worn out with work, and latterly with anxiety
and bitter distress.
This will be but a short letter, the first short one you will have
received from me since we parted. Dear Dall has gone from us. She
is dead; she died in my arms, and I closed her eyes.... I cannot
attempt to speak of this now, I will give you all details in my
next letter. It has been a dreadful shock, though it was not
unexpected; but there is no preparation for the sense of desolation
which oppresses me, and which is beyond words.... I wrote you a
long letter a few days ago, which will perhaps have led you to
anticipate this. We shall probably be in England on the 10th of
July.... The sole care of my father, who is deeply afflicted, and
charge of everything, devolves entirely on me now.... We left
Boston on Tuesday.... I act here to-night for the first time since
I lost that dear and devoted friend, who was ever near at hand to
think of everything for me, to care for me in every way. I have
almost cried my eyes out daily for the last three months; but that
is over now. I am working again, and go about my work feeling
stunned and bewildered....
I saw Dr. Channing on Monday; he has just lost a dear and intimate
connection. With what absolute faith he spoke of her! Gone! to the
Author of all good. That which was good must return to Him. It is
true, and I believe it, and know it; but at first I was lost....
God bless you, dear H----. We shall meet erelong, and in the midst
of great sorrow that will be a great joy to
* * * * *
* * * * *
THE END.
INDEX.
Abeken, 339.
Alfieri, 66.
Algeciras, 293.
Allison, 142.
America, incident of Fanny Kemble's last public reading in, 223, 277;
talking of going to, 425;
what it was _not_, 426;
Fanny Kemble's thoughts of, 483;
climate of, 535;
landing at New York, 535;
flies and mosquitoes, 541;
horse-racing in, 577.
"Antonio," 351.
Antonio, Countess St., 101, 338.
Ardgillan, 111, 133, 240, 253, 273, 289, 290, 318, 329, 348, 363, 457.
Augustine, 426.
Bailie, 488.
Bayard, 506.
Bellini, 100.
_Benedict_, 426.
Beowulf, 503.
Bessborough, 47.
Biagioli, 58.
Birmingham, 278.
Blackheath, 251.
Blangini, 59.
Bordogni, 276.
Boston, enthusiasm at Fanny Kemble's farewell engagement, 588.
Braham, 97;
sings "Tom Tug," 395.
Brandon, 286.
Bristol, 416;
market at, 424;
Abbey church, 425;
unprosperous business, 428;
trouble at theatre, 432.
Bruno, 426.
Budna, 302.
Calderon, 293.
_Caliban_, 338.
"Camiola," Fanny Kemble in, 255, 257, 367, 385, 388, 391.
Carlo, 505.
Catskills, 103.
C�lim�ne, 258.
Chantrey, 345;
Sir Francis, his design of vase presented to Charles Kemble, 354.
Chateaubriand, 166.
Chatmoss, 279;
drained and healthy, 530.
Cherubino, 391.
Chester, 277.
Clairon, 8;
Garrick's opinion of, 446.
Cockrell, 9.
Coleridge, 124.
Colnaghi, 243.
Cramer, 321.
Croly, 390.
Cunarosa, 101.
"Darnley," 370.
Delane, 88.
Derby, Lord, incident with Miss Farren in "School for Scandal," 452.
Dessauer, 245.
"Destiny," 389.
Dickens, 167.
"Dionysius," 239.
Dover, 250.
Dublin, 254;
Fanny Kemble at, 270;
incident before leaving for London, 272;
her departure from, 273.
Dunbarton, 267.
Dupr�, 545.
Duraset, Mr., generosity in helping Covent Garden, 464.
Eckermann, 338.
Evans, 17.
F�nelon, 426.
Flaxman, 109.
Forbes, 108.
"Francis I.," correcting the metre, 341, 350, 355, 357, 396;
sold to Wm. Murray for �4000, 482;
its publication, 497;
Murray's desire to publish without last scene, 503;
its effect when read in the greenroom of Covent Garden Theatre, 503;
the cast altered, 503;
preface to, 504;
cast upset the second time, 504;
prologue, 505;
postponed for a fortnight, 510;
its popularity due to the indulgence and curiosity of London
audiences, 518;
played for first time, 525, 526.
Giardano, 442.
Gibson, 302.
"Glenarvon," 46.
Godwin, 473.
Goethe, 80;
"Tasso," 139, 166, 169, 351, 178;
his self-experimentalizing in "The Sorrows of Werther," 337;
"Faust" and "Wilhelm Meister," 339;
his nature, 338;
partiality in delineating character, 338.
Guinevre, 327.
Guirani, 24.
Harris, 107.
Harlow, 327;
picture of Mrs. Siddons in "Queen Katharine," 459.
Hazlitt, 124.
Heaton, 277;
Charles Kemble invited to, 291, 295, 297;
evenings at, 300.
Hoffman, 29.
Hogarth, 258;
pictures by, 422.
Hogg, 142.
Horner, 142.
Horsley, 395.
"Imogen," 243.
Ireland, 254.
"Isaure," 382.
Jacobite, A, 261.
_Juliana_, 437.
Kant, 346.
Kemble, Philip, 8.
Kenilworth, 108.
Kinglake, 126.
Lablache, 205.
Lamartine, 116.
Lancashire, 278.
Lansdowne, 106.
Lansdowne, 497.
Lane, Mr., 240.
Latour, 37.
Lawrence, Sir Thomas, friendly relations between and Mrs. Charles Kemble
restored, 207;
admiration for Mrs. Siddons, _ib._;
engagement broken in favor of her younger sister, _ib._;
engaged to Miss Sarah Siddons, 207;
his interest in authors, 208;
criticisms of Fanny Kemble's acting, 209;
"Lawrence is dead," _ib._;
anecdotes of, 210, 215;
painting of Satan, 214;
beautiful drawing-room, _ib._;
merit as a painter, 216;
pictures of Canning, Lord Aberdeen, and Mr. John Kemble, 217;
his want of conscience, _ib._;
print of his portrait of Fanny Kemble, 234;
his criticisms of Fanny Kemble, 237, 239, 320, 327;
lawsuits about theatre patents, 339;
Pickersgill care not to copy, 365;
Duke of Wellington's bitter pill to, 393;
a dangerous companion, 402;
opinion of a Madonna, 242;
picture of Fanny Kemble, the best, 525;
his opinion on theatrical matters, 577.
Le Texier, 2, 30.
Liverpool, 277;
railway between and Manchester, 278.
Llangollen, 345.
Loudham, his hopes of fixing the Chancery suit of Charles Kemble, 463.
Malebranche, 441.
"Mathilde," 332.
Matterhorn, 85.
Matuscenitz, 299.
Maxwell, 157;
anecdote of one of that family, 261.
Mazzochetti, 26.
"Medea," 400.
Megrin, St., 420.
_Mercutio_, 483;
Charles Kemble in, after his sickness, 480
Moli�re, 258.
Monson, 90.
"Napoleon," 364.
Newman Street, 8.
Norton, Mrs., anecdote with Hook, 171, 175, 345, 357, 414, 480;
Hayter's picture, 487, 496, 504, 510.
Nourrit, 462.
"Old Plays" compared with "The Gamester," and "Grecian Daughter," 385.
Paris, 276.
Parliament, 421.
"Philaster," 385.
Planch�, 95.
Poitier, 66;
in the "Vaudeville," 483.
_Portia_, 187;
Fanny Kemble's first appearance as, 247, 248;
character of, 248;
costumes of, 249, 336, 352;
compared with _Camiola_, 367, 397, 414;
at Bristol, 431, 532.
Portland, 450.
Portsmouth, 451.
Pickersgill, 365.
Richter, 80.
"Rienzi," 354.
Rigby, Mr., 4.
Ristori, 571.
Rivens, Lady, 4.
Rossini, 100.
Roxelane, 68.
"Rush-bearing," a, 296.
Rye, 521.
Sackville, 462.
"Sakuntal�," 178.
Salmon, 89.
"Salmonia," 539.
Schiller, 169;
"Mary Stuart," 312.
"School for Scandal," incident of Miss Farren and Lord Derby in, 452;
at Southampton, 454, 487, 498;
in New York, 543.
Serenading, 470.
Shelley, 166;
his passion for fire-gazing, 325, 334;
the Cenci;
translation of Calderon's "El Magico Prodigioso;"
"Faust," 384;
"Prometheus Unbound," 496, 498;
"The Sensitive Plant," and "Rosalind and Helen," 498;
"The Two Sisters," 499.
Shelley, Capt., in "Hernani", 404.
_Shylock_, 351;
analysis of the character, 430.
Siddons, Cecilia, 91, 94, 108, 123, 180, 239, 323, 400;
picture by Clint, 405;
plans after her mother's death, 416, 466.
Siddons, Mrs. Henry, 140, 141, 143, 158, 164, 180, 193, 259, 261, 286,
291, 305, 359, 364.
Shaw, 60.
Sismondi, 83.
Sinclair, 123.
Solomon, 166.
"Sonnambula," 507.
Spain, 293.
St. Albans, Duchess of, Miss Mellon and Mrs. Coutts, 391.
Storace, 500.
Switzerland, 277.
"Tasso," 351
Terry, 142.
Thackeray, W.M., 126, 167, 183;
broken nose, 490, 496.
Thorwaldsen, 343.
_Victorine_, 507.
"Valeria," 436.
Wallenstein, 474.
Weymouth, 449.
Willet, 108.
Wilkes, 490.
Wordsworth, 166.
Worsley, 270.
Wraxall, 104.
[Transcriber's note:
The following names were changed in the index for consistency with the
text:
Alleghany was Allegheny
Belzoni Belzini
Biagioli Biagoli
Der Freysch�tz Der Freyschutz
Flore, Mlle. Flor�, Mlle.
Foscolo, Ugo Foscolo, Uga
Nourit Nouritt
Pickersgill Puckersgill
Roxolane Roxolaine
Sakuntal� Sakuntala
Sonnambula Somnambula
Ther�se Heyne Therese Heyne
Winckelmann Winckelman
* * * * *
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